Castiel and Crowley SE2 Episode 5: Imagine
by WatchingOne
Summary: A world without the Devil...a world that only...well...the Old Gods wish to break and consume...there's that...Castiel and Crowley are nearing the End...or an End. The last World stands on the brink, with only C-Squared keeping it afloat...and not even God can help them, because...well...yeah...
1. No Hell Below Us

**….No Hell Below Us**

Gabriel returned to the Resistance Headquarters with Jesse and his team of Hunters, who immediately discarded their gear in assorted racks and bins and headed for the barracks, presumably to catch up on some much needed sleep.

Gabriel and Jesse watched them go and let out a nearly synchronized sigh. They stood side by side, both with their hands in their pockets. They turned their heads toward each other and nodded.

"You felt that, too, huh?" Gabriel asked. Jesse nodded again and looked away.

"Lucifer's gone. The Gate..."

"Yep, just me, looks like," Gabriel answered. "Should be used to that by now."

There was a long silence between the two as they made a half-hearted attempt to oversee and peruse the various activities within the Resistance warehouse.

"He's coming, isn't He?" Jesse finally whispered.

Gabriel wrinkled his brow and frowned. "Actually not so sure about that, kiddo."

Jesse frowned in return and looked at Gabriel. "What d'ya mean by that? He's almost got the Gate down. He just needs to remove you from the equation, and God gets what He wants...full blown Armageddon."

Gabriel smiled slightly and clapped Jesse on the back. "That's why I'm sticking around you, 'mate...I'm not sure He would want to try it now."

"You think...that I can protect you from Judah...from _God_...?" Jesse asked doubtfully.

Gabriel shrugged. "My last shot, I think. Look, kid, with the last of the New Heralds dead, all of your power has returned to you."

"Lucifer's gone too, Gabriel."

Gabriel nodded and held up a finger. "And don't think I haven't thought of that."

"I'm only at full power if Lucifer walks the earth. You know that," Jesse continued unabated. "So there is no way I could stand up to Judah now."

Gabriel squinted and nodded to himself. "Maybe..." he muttered.

"Maybe what?"

Gabriel was quiet for a second and shook his head vigorously. "Nothing. Look, better safe than sorry, right?"

Jesse turned to him and looked the Archangel up and down. "So you're just gonna...what when Judah comes for you? Throw me at him and hope for the best?"

"It's not like that, kid..."

"Oh, I think it totally is," Jesse shot back angrily. "Never changes with you Angels, does it?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Jesse glanced away as someone came out of a back office and made his way towards them. When he saw that it was Castiel, his face darkened even more.

"Perfect example," he answered once Castiel was there. "This one comes for me when I was like 12 years old, to _kill_ me, might I add..."

Castiel looked confused. "Jesse, that was a long time ago, and I was wrong...I'm truly, truly sorry for..."

Jesse held up a hand, stopping him. "Then, when I had just about figured everything out, had a little bit of peace and quiet in my life, Michael shows up and recruits me, telling me I'm supposed to stop you and Crowley because you had plans on taking over Heaven and Hell...and it turns out that was actually _his_ plan all along..."

"To be fair, he was quite insane at the time," Castiel mumbled.

"Now, Gabe here wants to use me as cannon-fodder for an equally insane, Apocalypse motivated _God Himself_..." He glared at Gabriel. "It just never ends..."

"Like I said, it isn't like that, Jesse," Gabriel retorted, his mood also darkening.

"Which part?" Castiel asked, confused. Gabriel rolled his eyes at him and shot him a withering look.

Jesse threw up his hands and stalked off. "Yeah, _exactly_. You know, just...stay out of my damned way, OK? Both of you...all of you!"

Gabriel and Castiel watched him stalk off. Castiel turned back to Gabriel and frowned deeply.

"Which part, Gabriel?" he repeated his question, eyes narrowing.

* * *

Cartaphilus bustled through the crowd, head down,, his mind reeling.

He had been _so close_. And Judah had thwarted him.

 _Again_.

He meandered into a Starbucks and sat down at one of the empty tables, rubbing his forehead with his hand.

He had been thinking over his next plan of action. The Old Ones were still there - as they had always been, actually - just beyond the veil. And he had the power to let them cross that void, to break through the threshold.

But not fully. Cthulhu had merely been a _partial_ manifestation.

The Gate. It still came down to that damnable Gate. With it still sealed, the Old Ones wouldn't be able to come through en masse and end this wretched Creation once and for all.

Judah...He had said that He also sought to bring the Gate down - that they had, in fact, the exact same goals.

The Roman chuckled to himself. No,no...their _means_ to this end might be the same, certainly, but that particular end was _absolutely_ not the same.

There would be a catch if he allowed Judah to accomplish that Himself, some kind of backdoor to allow God to restart everything again. This was what God did – He worked in circles. An ever-turning wheel of misery and torment and laughable 'justice' – a ignorant, spoiled child's attempt to Create a 'perfect' world. Failure after failure after failure, leading to suffering and madness and torture and cruelty.

What a joke. A cosmic joke. And decidedly not a funny one.

No. It had to end. Completely and totally...

"Actually, the muffins here are surprisingly delicious," a cold , mellow smooth voice spoke to him from across the small table. Cartaphilus stiffened in surprise – he had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he hadn't noticed the other person sitting down at all.

Of course, the term 'person' here was highly inaccurate.

He looked up slowly, ready to run, his every muscle taught. He felt a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.

The tall, thin, gaunt entity stared back at him with black eyes. He was almost daintily holding a blueberry muffin in one ancient, gnarled claw and had the hints of a smile on his face.

The Roman felt like a mouse under the gaze of a silent Owl in the forest. A raptor watched him, holding the power of life and death over him based merely on a whim.

The fact that it was Death himself that sat there watching him made this metaphor even more acutely poignant.

"Relax, Roman, I am not here in an official capacity," Death said, his voice filling the air between them, despite it's low and smooth tones. "I am only here to visit...perhaps chat a while."

Cartaphilus felt himself involuntarily leaning back.

"You...want to _talk_?"

"Of course," Death answered, with a facsimile of a smile on his horribly thin face. "Do you have anything against talking?"

Cartaphilus blinked. "About what?"

"Ah, I see - it depends on the subject matter. Very well," Death purred. "I wish to discuss your plans for the future."

Cartaphilus blinked again, more rapidly this time. "The future...?"

"More precisely, if there will actually _be_ one," Death finished, eating the last of the muffin and tenting his fingers together, staring around them at the Roman and chewing slowly.

"I'm not sure that I understand..."

Death held his hands out to his sides. "It's a simple question, really. There is an Apocalypse coming. This is inevitable. Either you shall be the author of it, or God will. With God, I know what to expect, as I have been through this with Him an unbelievably, _uncountable_ number of times," Death drawled on. Cartaphilus noted the particularly bitter note in Death's tone when he spoke about God.

"You, however, are a completely unknown commodity. A wild card that, until now, has never shown up in any of the cycles of Creation that God has set in motion. Therefore, as literally the _only_ principle besides God Himself that is intimately entwined in this little _endless_ dance of His, I am wondering if I should, perhaps, consider switching dance partners."

He leaned forward, fixing Cartaphilus with his cold glare.

"If the tune is right, that is."

The sweat on the Roman's brow stopped as he let out a breath that he had been holding, and he felt a smile come onto his face.

* * *

Dean helped Sam into the Impala and closed the door behind him. They pulled out of the parking lot of the hospital and Dean glanced over at his brother, who was pale and looked weak.

"Pain meds not kicking in or what?" Dean asked hesitantly.

Sam grunted and shook his head. "Meds are fine...still...you know..."

Dean nodded to himself. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"Lucifer..." Sam whispered. "Dean, it was..."

"Yeah, I know," Dean replied, gunning the car onto the highway.

Sam hung his head. "So, how did you do it? Get him out, I mean."

Dean frowned. "You don't remember? I thought..."

"Yeah, normally, yeah, I could see everything that was going on...but the last few days...mostly nada. A big black blur."

"Total blackout?" Dean asked considering. "That's weird."

Sam huffed out a half-laugh. "Yeah, tell me about it. Never had that happen before. It was almost a relief, you know? Not having to watch what... _he_ did..."

They rode in near silence for awhile, the only sound coming from the 8-track of AC/DC's _Back in Black_ that Dean had been playing.

"You know...there was something else, too," Dean finally said reflectively.

"What's that?"

Dean shrugged. "Probably, nothing...probably."

" _What_?" Sam asked insistently, worry creeping into his voice.

"Well, at the end there...it just...you...I mean, _him_...he wasn't really acting much like Lucifer, you know?"

"No, Dean, I don't. Please tell me."

Dean sighed, glancing over at Sam quickly, then looked back towards the road. "Well, I didn't really think too hard about it, because I thought that Lucifer was cornered and all...but at the end there, he was snarling and attacking and shouting ...you know...like random Demon crap...not the typical Lucy rhetoric, you hear me?"

Sam leaned back and closed his eyes. "It was still him...I would have known it if it was another Demon, or he switched up."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "You sure about that? 'cause you just told me that you were blacked-out there for the last few days."

Sam smiled slightly, eyes still closed. "I said 'mostly'. Anyway, I was _still_ fighting, Dean. Even incoherent and blind, I never stopped fighting. He's just...so powerful..." He shook his head. "No, if he left even for a second, I would have noticed that." He looked out of the passengers side window, considering. "I wonder..."

"What?"

"Well, the blackout started when Judah stripped most of his Archangel power away. I got the feeling that the Demon side of him was taking over...taking advantage of that. All that dark energy he had...it just started _winning_ , you get me?"

"You sayin' that he went over to the Dark Side?" Dean quipped, smirking. "Boy, Sammy, this is Lucifer we're talking about here...he was pretty much Dark Side already...kinda the actual _boss_ of it, you know?"

Sam returned the smirk. "No, no, that's not what I'm saying at all really. I'm saying..." he stopped and shook his head. "Man, I dunno either."

Dean glanced over again and nodded. "Uh-huh. Sure. You _absolutely_ got nothin' on your mind, that's for sure."

Sam frowned. "Yeah, Ok...but what if...he was like an _animal_ , Dean...what if...what if there _was_ no angelic side left in him?"

"Whatchootalkingbout, Sammy?"

"I mean, Lucifer was an Archangel who fell, then took the power of the Darkness into himself, then fused it to him. When Judah ripped that Archangel power out of him...the angelic power wasn't enough to keep the Darkness back...in balance, so to say...and it just destroyed the angelic side." He looked over at Dean, his red-rimmed, tired eyes open with an obvious sense of urgency. "Dean, _how_...how did you get Lucifer out of me?"

Dean paled, gripping the steering wheel more tightly. "Um...I had an idea..."

"What?"

"I...I used a tracking spell..."

Sam snorted. You...? Oh man..."

"Can I finish?" Dean snapped, annoyed. Sam nodded, suppressing a smile. Dean let out a deep breath. "Anyway, it said that Lucifer, you know...that he was a Demon, not an Angel..."

"Wait...the _spell_ told you that?"

"No, the map, smart-guy...red for Demons, blue for Angels..."

"Oh, you used _that_ spell..." Sam nodded sagely. "Man, I seriously don't want to see the mess that you left in the kitchen..."

"Shut up, Sam."

"No, ok, please continue. So, he was red on the map..." he frowned as he repeated that. "Actually, yeah, that _is_ weird..."

"Yeah, I figured like you did, well, sort of...that he was more Demon than Angel, so I grabbed a book of exorcism..."

"Wait,waitwaitwaitwaitjustaminutehere... are you saying that you _exorcised_ Lucifer while he was _pure Demon_...?!" Sam asked, alarmed.

"Yeah, I did... _what_? It worked, you know?"

Sam looked at Dean, incredulous. "Dean...Dean, you are aware that there is no Heaven and Hell right now, right? They are closed off...there's nowhere for souls or vacated energy to go back to...you _have_ to be able to remember that from your time being possessed by Michael, right?"

Dean looked back at Sam. "Yeah...so?"

Sam watched him, then leaned back and closed his eyes again, letting out a deep sigh. "Dean...I don't know how to say this...so I'm just going to say it..."

There was a long silence as the Impala raced down the highway, engine roaring.

"What?!"

"Dean...I think you just might have _killed_ the frikkin' Devil."

Dean looked over and then back to the road. "Huh."

"Yeah," Sam answered, half-laughing and shaking his head.

"Huh," Dean repeated. He turned the Impala onto the highway leading out of Los Angeles as the tape in the radio started over again, the red light clicking from Track 8 back to Track 1 and _Hell's Bell's_ started playing.

"Cool," he said finally, smirking as he gunned the engine again.

* * *

Aleister Crowley squirmed in the chair, once again testing the ropes and straps that held his arms there. He grimaced as he found them just as non-responsive as the first time that he had tried them.

"Now, let's start all over again, shall we?" Crowley said, pacing in front of him and smiling. "You found me, _how_?"

"I've told you that already...I have an algorithm that uses face recognition to match against various databases..."

Crowley looked at the ceiling. "Yes, I know...let me clarify...what I want to know is: _which_ of those databases gave you a hit on my face?"

Aleister frowned. "Um...Rolling Stone, actually."

"Excuse me?"

"Rolling Stone. The magazine. One of your acts went double-platinum a few years back, and there was a picture of you with them backstage presenting it to them."

"Ah," Crowley answered, thinking, nose wrinking. "Yes. Yes I seem to recall that party." He shook his head. "Damned smartphones. I'm usually more careful about photographs." He shrugged to himself and walked over to his desk and scribbled a note down furiously.

"What was that?"

Crowley turned back around to Aleister and shrugged nonchalantly. "Nothing. Just a reminder to wipe out the entire Rolling Stones digital archive is all."

Aleister's jaw dropped open a little. "You...you aren't serious about that, are you?"

"As a heart attack. Now; next question – aren't you supposed to be dead?"

"Er...what?" Aleister answered. "Oh...oh...no, no! I'm not the _original_ Aleister Crowley, naturally...I'm his grandson."

"Son of Randall Gair Crowley, I presume?"

Aleister smiled. "See, that's where you're wrong. Not a half-son at all, rather the son of the son of Crowley and Rose Edith Kelly."

Crowley frowned. "They had no sons."

"None that were _reported_..." Aleister smiled triumphantly. "But all of his heritage, witchcraft and knowledge was passed along a secret line, _my_ line actually, down to me, the last surviving male of the Crowley name."

Crowley smiled down patronizingly at Aleister. "I see mental illness still runs in the family."

Aleister frowned. "Not at all."

"What 'witchcraft' then are you referring to? _Real_ witchcraft?" Crowley prodded.

"Oh come now, is it so hard to believe? After all, you and your friends just battled bloody Cthulhu down on Venice Beach. Surely you don't have trouble believing in magic?"

Crowley smiled benignly. "OK, assuming that I do for a second...believe you, that is...for pure amusement's sake...what exactly are you proposing to offer me?"

Aleister's eyes lit up. "Everything!" Crowley raised his eyebrows at him in question. "I...I...mean, of course," he added, hastily correcting his statement, " I mean that I can offer everything as to helping you banish the Old Ones from our world... _forever_ , actually, if I have access to the correct resources..."

"'Correct resources?'"

"Well, if I am not mistaken, one of the people down there on the beach was an Angel, am I correct?"

Crowley sighed. "Oh dear...yes, yes, you are pesky, I'll give you that." He tapped his finger on his chin, "I _hate_ pesky." He leaned in dangerously. "OK, tell me why?"

Aleister blanched. "Er...why...why what?"

"Why would you offer to help me?"

"Well...the...the whole bloody world is in danger, isn't it? I...I mean...I can't imagine that you'd actually _want_ it to be eaten by the Old Ones...do you have any idea what they'd do to us all?"

"Eat us?"

"Among other things!"

Crowley looked down at Aleister, considering. He finally sighed and rolled his eyes. "Fine. Fine. You're too smart to let go, and too stupid and naive to just kill." He bent down and released the straps holding Aleister to the chair. "Just what I need – another bloody Boy Scout."

"Heh? Not following;" Aleister answered, rubbing at his wrists.

"That angel that you mentioned? You two just _have_ to meet..."


	2. Above Us Only Sky

**Above Us Only Sky**

The singer on stage strummed out the last few cords on his guitar, a melancholy note hung in the air, and it would have been a lie to say that there was a dry eye in the smoke-filled country bar on the outskirts of Waco named 'Walters', a bar that had over the course of several years had become infamous for it's rugged, pure red-state, no-nonsense attitude, definitely a place where grown men did not cry. But tonight, they did. And it had nothing to do with the smoke in the room, or the after effects of Walter's equally infamous whiskey sour shots. The note that hung in the air spoke of a deep loss that no man should have to feel, a gnawing, empty pain whose dull blade cut through not only one's guts, but left the soul shaking and pale.

They watched silently as the singer quietly said "Thank You," and got up from his bar stool that he had been sitting upon on the small, beer-soaked stage. He tipped his hat to them and walked, head-down, towards the the crickety wooden door marked 'Staff Only - All Trespassers will Die' and disappeared inside. It took several moments for the crowd inside of Walters to notice that the jukebox had come back on, and was wailing away with Hank Williams 'All My Rowdy Friends'. There were several blinks of wonder and shakes of the head, and the conversation started back up, building from a low hum into a dull roar, taking several more minutes before it became it's regular, cantankerous orchestra that graced the dirty bar, pool tables and dance floor at Walters, but even then, there was a subdued tone to it - a feeling that everyone in there had changed just now, and they were still trying to figure out how.

The singer sat in the back room with his head hung down at a small table with a shaving mirror and a few Playboy magazines strewn across it. There were pictures on the wall of several Nascar drivers, a few scantily clad girls posing with motorcycles, and a signed picture of George W. Bush., along with a sign written in marker that said 'Green Room - For Bands Only - All Others Will Be Fed to My Dog'.

"Hello Chuck," a voice said in the room, clear as a bell despite the muffled noise of the rowdy crowd in the main room and the jukebox cranked to eleven.

The singer looked up, his red-rimmed but piercing blue eyes searching briefly around the room from side-to-side before settling on the mirror, in which his own scruffy, bearded , pale face was not reflected, but instead a young, intense, middle eastern looking man with raptor-like brown eyes stared back at him.

"Oh, hi Judah," Chuck muttered, obviously less than enthused.

The face in the mirror smiled back at Chuck. "And? Are we done feeling sorry for ourselves yet? I have work to do."

Chuck glared at Judah. "You son-of-a..."

"Oh, tsk-tsk," Judah winced sarcastically. "What's the point in insulting me like that, we're the same person, after all."

"I just lost..."

Judah waved his hand. "Yes, yes, Lucifer. I know. His own fault really. Can't say that I'm shocked at that development. Can't truly believe that you are either."

"...s'not the point," Chuck muttered, reaching over a picking up a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels and taking a healthy swig.

"The point being?"

"He was my _son_ , you asshole!" Chuck yelled, slamming the bottle down, and upsetting a few empty glasses on the table that had collected there. "With Michael dead as well, that makes my two first born sons dead! Do you even get that?!"

Judah regarded him coolly from the mirror and tilted his head to the side. "They were my sons as well."

"Pffffttt," Chuck huffed. "You don't have the _slightest_ concept of what that word means."

"Of course I do, don't be ridiculous."

"You're a frikkin, reptile, Judah," Chuck slurred, taking another swig and pointing with a finger while holding the bottle. "You'd eat your young if it served your porpoise...purpose...whatever."

Judah sighed. "I merely let Michael and Lucifer do as they pleased, gave them the freedom they craved, instead of manipulating, controlling and imprisoning them as you did."

"And look how well _that_ turned out for them..." Chuck huffed humorously.

"All a result of the path that _you_ set them on, Chuck," Jonah retaliated. "Don't try to play innocent with me. I know your thoughts and plans better than anyone. This happened on _your_ watch, Chuck, this was all _your_ doing, and that's what's driving you insane."

"You _are_ me..." Chuck squinted in concentration. " 'course you're right..."

Judah squinted back at Chuck. "You are impossibly inebriated. Perhaps we should have this conversation at another time."

Chuck wagged a finger violently at the mirror. "Oh no you don' !" he yelled. "You jus' wanna ta be in charge 'gain." He shook his head from side to side. "No...no! Not lettin' you...you'll...you'll wreck everythin'" he slurred, sweeping his arm wide in an arc, sending bottles crashing to the floor.

"Hey!" you allright in there?!" a voice called from a closed door marked 'Management'. ""Who you talking at in there?"

"S'nothin'! No one!" Chuck slurred back. "S'all good!"

"Don't break nothin', or you just bought it! " came the grumpy reply. Chuck looked down forlornly at the broken glass and, with a sigh, began clumsily sweeping it into a small pile.

"Pathetic," Judah said from one the reflection on one of the larger shards of glass. "Fun's over, Chuck. This was a temporary reprieve. We need to be me again. There are deeds to be done."

"You're jus' gonna kill everyone...jus' like you always do..." Chuck said quietly, closing his eyes. "Charlie was right about you."

Judah froze and jerked back a little. "She was...a mistake."

Chuck huffed. "See? Reptile." He glared at the piece of glass with Judah's face in it and then dumped the whole pile of broken shards into a trash can. He looked back up at the shaving mirror, where Judah's face reappeared, regarding him with a stern gaze. "She was what we were missin' all those millennia, all those times..."

Judah shrugged. "How so? Here we are again. Apocalypse. End of the line. Same result. Compassion? Emotion? It made no difference."

Chuck shook his head. "Nah...no...s'different this time...she _made_ a difference..."

"Oh? Then where is she then? Why is it just you and me... _again_? The Creator and The Destroyer? The Alpha and the Omega?"

"She does'n wanna talk to you..." Chuck slurred sleepily, putting his head down on the table and closing his eyes.

Judah huffed and crossed his arms. "I cannot see how she could even avoid it - she is also us as well."

Chuck opened one eye blearily and smiled. "S'like you said - we're going insane - thass why."

Judah frowned. "You're just drunk. And you've been in charge long enough. It's time for me to be me again."

Chuck closed his eyes again and smiled more widely. "The more Chaos reigns, the more power it gains over Creation, the harder it is for me - for _us_ \- to remain whole and co-habit...co-bit...coherent. We're breakin' apart, Judah. And you're helpin' them do it, you idiot." He drifted off, soft snores coming from him a few seconds later. Judah watched him from the mirror and sighed.

"You're not the only manifestation of us that can make plans, Chuck, not the only one with a destination. Maybe you should remember that," he said, the reflection in the tiny mirror standing up and walking to the side of the mirror's frame, disappearing.

A few seconds later, a young middle eastern man in loose fitting pants and a button down shirt walked out of the back and through the bar. He garnered more than a few hostile looks from the people there, but there was _something_ about him that kept them from truly starting anything. An air of confidence. A _warning_.

He walked out of Walters into the cool, dry Texas night air and breathed deeply, closing his eyes.

His head snapped, his eyes sprung open, wide-awake and alert. His gaze drifted towards Los Angeles, hundreds of miles to the west.

"Of course..." he muttered to himself quietly. "Of course they would do this again..."

Judah took two steps due west, then vanished.

* * *

"Who?" Castiel asked again, incredulous, leaning back against a table in Crowley's plush office at Hellfire Records, looking Aleister up and down. "I ...I don't understand...you just said that _he_ was Crowley...?"

Crowley held up a hand. "No, I apologize, Castiel, what I meant to say was ; 'a Crowley'. He's _a_ Crowley. The grandson of Aleister Crowley, to be more precise. And even more preceisely, he has a wealth of knowledge regarding the Old Ones. And, not to point too fine a point on it, a _horrifyingly_ familiar desire to do good and right the wrong and all of that. You should get along famously, I suspect."

"I..." Castiel began to answer.

"What? You two can get down to finding out how to protect the Earth, and I can get back to finding out what Judah did to me. Perfect arrangement in my opinion. So...get going. Have fun."

Castiel and Aleister both stared at Crowley, jaws slightly ajar.

"What?"

Castiel crossed his arms slowly over his chest, taking in a deep breath. "Crowley... _what_ are you up to?"

Crowley raised his eyebrows. "'Up to'? Nothing, Castiel, aside from what I just got through explaining to you - I want to find out what Judah did to me, especially if it's fatal or something, I might add...and this fellow..."

":...that you've just met..."

"Yes...that I've just met, but have thoroughly questioned..."

"Quite thoroughly," Aleister added, clenching his teeth.

"Yes, I apologize for that, but in my experience..."

"He tied me to a chair...for at least two hours," Aleister said, looking over at Castiel.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Yes, I did. My dear Aleister, you have literally no idea what my partner and I have _been through_ over the last year...it was a more than necessary precaution."

Aleister looked over at Castiel again, then his eyes widened. "You were at the beach!" he exclaimed excitedly. "You're the Angel!"

Castiel looked at Crowley, surprised and alarmed. Crowley smiled and held out his hand palm out. "See, Castiel? Full of knowledge. All you will be needing. Move along now." He made a 'shooshing' motion.

Castiel turned back to Aleister. "How do you know about Angels?"

"Actually, Angels are pretty well known around these parts, Castiel," Crowley murmured, opening a drawer, carefully removing a glass, then a bottle and pouring himself a neat whiskey, which he downed in one shot.

Castiel frowned. "Real Angels, I meant, not the Hallmark Card variation."

Aleister puffed out his chest pridefully. "My knowledge of the occult is without peer, my dear fellow...um...er...what was the name again?"

"Castiel."

"Oh! The Angel of Tears!"

Castiel shook his head. "No, that was Cassiel."

Aleister frowned. "Wait, and you said that your name was ….?"

" _Castiel_...with a 't'."

Aleister frowned. "I'm... um...sorry, but I don't think I know that one."

Castiel looked over at Crowley, exasperated. Crowley smiled and shrugged. "Your fame precedes you."

"I'm just a soldier," Castiel muttered. "There are thousands of Angels like me."

"Oh, not anymore," Crowley chimed in gleefully. When Castiel shot him a withering look, he held up his hand. "Oh, no, not like _that_...I meant you...that you aren't 'just a soldier' anymore...not that there aren't thousand of Angels anym..."

"Thanks, Crowley, I think we've got it now," Castiel grunted, interrupting. He looked over at Crowley and narrowed his eyes. Crowley grinned back. "Ok...I'll take...um...Crowley here back to headquarters..."

"You can call me Aleister, if you wish, just to keep things straight...may I call you Castiel?"

"...and get him set up with the team there," Castiel continued, ignoring him. "But don't try to fool me into thinking that all you're doing here is investigating what Judah did to you...we had _been_ doing that back at warehouse with Rowena before you left."

"For _good bloody reason_..."Crowley protested.

Castiel raised an eyebrow. "So, if you truly were interested in finding that out, we'll be there waiting for you. In the meantime..."

There was a long silence before Crowley raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Yes, Castiel?

Castiel shook his head. "Stay out of trouble. And remember, I'm watching you." He turned back to Aleister and indicated the door with a nod. "Come on, let's go." On the way out, he gave Crowley one more good, long stare, then left.

Crowley waited a few minutes and then let out a deep breath that he had been holding. He opened another drawer on his desk and pulled out an old Rolodex, opened the cracked plastic top, and began rifling through the cards with his fingers. When he found the one that he was looking for, he pulled it out and dialed the number on his smartphone.

"Yeah?" came a heavily accented voice from the other end.

"It's Crowley."

There was a long pause.

"Hmf. Ok, what kinna do fer ya?"

Crowley tapped his finger on his chin, considering. He nodded to himself.

"Code Black. I'll be sending you the details by FedEx. Expect them tomorrow." There was a grunt of acknowledgment from the other line.

"When willya be needin it done now?"

Crowley let out another deep breath. "Yesterday," he answered, pressing the screen to end the call before he got an answer. He put the phone down and stared at his empty glass. With a shaking hand, he poured himself another shot. A big one.


	3. A Brotherhood of Man

**A Brotherhood of Man**

"Is that...pie?" Sam grunted from his bed back in the Bunker, sitting up and wincing in pain.

Dean looked sheepish. "Uh...yeah...it's traditional...right?"

Sam managed a weak smile. "Yeah...I guess...sort of..."

Dean watched him carefully. "You sure you OK?"

Sam let out a breath. "Yeah, all things considered...like the hospital said, you missed all major arteries and bones. Just hurts like hell."

Dean smiled. "Hey man, I knew that you were still in there somewhere. And I'm a damned good shot. Besides, there's no wheelchair access into the Bunker...so I'd have been screwed trying to carry you in here."

Sam laughed at that and settled the plate with the piece of pie into his lap. He picked at a piece with a fork and put it into his mouth, his eyes widening in surprise. "S'good," he managed the compliment through a mouthful. He finished chewing and swallowed, his eyebrows raising. "You said 'traditional', though...what's the occasion?"

Dean looked affronted. "Sammy...it's _Christmas_...you...you didn't know what day it is?"

Sam shrugged. "Yeah, Dean, kinda been outta it for a while, you know?"

Dean nodded slowly. "Yeah. I know, Sammy. I know. Sorry."

"For what?"

"For not getting you out of there faster. For not listening to Cas and Chuck in the first damned place and getting us into this mess..." His fists clenched and unclenched. "Just standard ol' Dean Operating Procedure, I guess."

Sam smiled tightly. "Dean, there was no way for you, me, _anyone_ to have known..."

Dean waved him off. "Yeah, yeah, I know what you're gonna say, Sammy, and some of it will make sense, sure. But I'm telling you this – from now on, we stay the hell out of it. All of it. Cas calls...we don't even pick up the damned phone, deal?"

Sam considered his brother for a long moment, and finally nodded in accession. "Deal. And Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Merry Christmas."

A slow smile came to Dean's face. "It's good to have you back, Sammy. Merry Christmas." A bell sounded, announcing someone at the Bunker's door. Sam looked at Dean in confusion.

"We expecting someone?"

Dean shrugged, still smiling. He got up and headed out to the entrance. "Yeah, dinner. What? You think I'd have tried to roast a frikkin' turkey myself? Bucket of KFC – one for each of us – original recipe, of course."

Sam snorted as Dean patted the doorjamb and went to the door. He shook his head and looked down at the plate of pie, scooping up another bite.

"Gotta love that Winchester Christmas Spirit...," he smiled, leaning back and closing his eyes.

* * *

"Oh, you shouldn't have..."Gabriel said exaggeratedly, taking the large package from Castiel and shaking it lightly next to his ear. "Um...what is it? It's _heavy_..."

"Consider it a gift," Castiel answered gruffly.

Gabriel arched an eyebrow. "Cassie...since when do you believe in Christmas? I mean...the gift-giving, tree decorating, pagan one? You know how much that pissed Michael off that it overshadowed the birth of the Son, right?" He frowned, considering. "Actually, when I put it that way...Merry Christmas!" he exclaimed joyfully as he set the box down and ripped the top off of it like an excited ten-year old. He looked into the open box and frowned. He looked back up at Castiel.

"Is that...what I _think_ it is?"

Castiel nodded.

"Cassie..." Gabriel said breathlessly, carefully closing the torn lid as best he could and leaning back on the table, "Cassie... _where_ did you get that?"

"From Issiah and Obidiah," Castiel answered, his keen eyes fixed on Gabriel, watching for a reaction.

Gabriel nodded. "Yeah...yeah...that makes sense...they were the last ones in charge of the angelic Council up there after Suriel was killed..." he rubbed his hand over his mouth, his head slowly shaking in disbelief. "Cassie...why would you give this to..."

"...because you're the last Archangel, Gabriel," Castiel interrupted.

Gabriel held up a hand. "That might not be true, what about you?"

Castiel frowned. "What about me? Any power that I may have received is dubiously attained...most likely tainted..." he also held up a hand as Gabriel started to object. "And even _if_ it isn't – you're the oldest and most experienced Archangel left – one that has at least a little experience in dealing with artifacts that powerful. And considering what Judah told me on the beach..." he said, nodding in the direction of the box. He shook his head quickly. "I never thought that we'd ever have to protect ourselves from Him..."

Gabriel watched him, jaw slightly agape. "Cassie...I don't know..."

"Well, you better. The whole of Creation might depend on that," Castiel grunted, nodding at him. He turned and left Gabriel's room, stopping just outside of his door.

"So, Merry Christmas," he said. "It might not be the 'gift' that you were expecting...or wanted...but it's the one you got. Use it well." With that, he walked off down the hallway, heading back to the main chamber at Resistance HQ.

Gabriel watched the empty doorframe for a long time, then walked over slowly and shut himself in. He turned and looked at the closed, plain cardboard box as if it were filled with poisonous snakes, and felt a shudder go through him.

"Yeah...Merry damned Christmas..." he muttered, going over to it, picking it up, and hastily shoving it into the back of his small dressing closet, shutting the door to it tightly.

* * *

The line for the Mall Santa stretched literally three times around the mall. Word had gotten out quickly as to what he had been doing – what he had been _able_ to do.

Nothing less than miracles.

"And what can Santa get for you this Christmas, Sally?" Santa asked the bright-eyed seven year-old sitting on his lap. Her eyes went wide.

"You know my _name_...?" she asked him breathlessly.

He smiled. "Of course I do! I'm Santa Claus!"

She shook her head. "Nuh-uh...not the really real one, right? You're a helper...like an elf..."

"Now, now, Sally, whoever told you that?"

"My mommy and daddy said so..." Sally answered sheepishly. "They told me that the real Santa has helpers everyone, and that's why he's in all the malls every Christmas."

Santa smiled. "Well, Sally, I'm the real one...you need proof? Tell me what you're wish is. I know for a fact that you're on my 'nice' list this year, Sally, even if you did punch your brother that time. But you were very, very sorry and made it up to him, didn't you?" he asked, eyes twinkling.

Sally nodded, dumbfounded. "Yeah...yeah...! I was so sorry! I'm...I'm still on the 'nice' list, really?"

Santa let out a jovial, deep, belly laugh. "That's what I said now, isn't it!? Now, what was your wish? Anything that you really, truly want, the best present that you can ever think of, now."

Sally shied away, looked at her parents, who were smiling at her. Emboldened, she turned back to Santa, clapping her hands together.

"Can I have a pony? A real one?"

Santa smiled and leaned closer. "Of course you can," he whispered. His eyes looked over Sally's shoulder.

There was a gasp of shock and surprise from the crowd, and soft, happy neigh.

Sally's eyes widened further, and she turned her eyes slowly around.

She sprang from Santa's lap and ran full tilt toward the small gray and white spotted pony, her very confused looking parents holding the reins and bridle.

"OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD-IT'S EVEN THE COLOR I WANTED! I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER!" Sally squealed in delight, rushing to the pony's neck and wrapping her arms around it. "Can I ride her home, Daddy? Please?"

Her father, still in shock, looked up at the smiling Santa, then, blinking, looked back at his daughter. "Um...sure...I mean...we'll...we'll... he looked up desperately at his wife, who was just as equally in shock as he was and offered no help. "...we'll see, honey..." he finished, numbly leading his family with the new pony in tow away from the mall Christmas market. The next child practically flew towards Santa, springing into his lap.

At the end of his shift, and after hundreds of more miracles, the line for the Mall Santa did not go away, many hundreds of people, if not thousands, chose to just wait their turn, even if they were going to have to wait outside for days. Santa went back to his dressing room and sat down heavily in his chair, letting out a long sigh of relief.

"What do you _think_ that you're doing?" came a reproachful voice from in front of him.

Santa looked up, shocked, and found himself staring into the large mirror on his dressing room table.

But it wasn't his reflection that stared back at him...it was...

"Judah...I ...I don't understand..."

"Santa Claus?" Jonah practically spat in distaste. "We're taking on the semblance of a pagan symbol now? Not even a true one, either – one spawned from the gods of consumerism."

"I...but _I'm_..."

Judah shook his head. "No, you're not. We're not. We are being ripped apart by chaos is what we are." He leveled his gaze. "I am the Lion of Judah. Give me my form back. We are not finished yet."

"How did this happen?" Santa groaned, leaning back in his chair, his hand covering his forehead. "It's happening too quickly..."

Judah nodded. "There's an agent of Darkness here. I sensed it a few days ago. It's here, it's very powerful, and I need to get back to work. So...if you don't mind?"

A few minutes later, Judah strode out of the dressing room, wearing the over-sized street clothing of the Mall Santa. One of the security guards saw him and his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Hey...where's Irvin?"

"Went back to the North Pole," Judah grunted, then vanished.

The guard jumped back in shock, looked down at his Irish Coffee, and immediately spilled it's contents out into a trashcan.

* * *

"Oh, lamb, you came _back_!" Rowena exclaimed happily, getting up from her place on a couch in her quarters and clapping her hands together. "Does this mean that you forgive me?"

"Hardly," Crowley grunted, but he was still smiling amiably. He held out a package that he had been holding behind his back to her. "I am simply honoring our annual tradition, Mother. Merry Christmas."

"Oh," Rowena cooed, "Fergus, you _shouldn't_ have."

"I agree."

She shot him a sour look and took the small package, obviously a bottle. She raised an eyebrow. "Glenn Fiddich?"

"Naturally, Crowley replied. "Although how you are able to drink that swill, I'll never understand."

"Well, my tastes are more refined than yours, lamb, that's all," Rowena smirked, pulling the wrapper off of the bottle and setting it on a counter. She went to a cupboard and pulled out two tumblers. "Will you join me?"

"If I must."

"I insist," Rowena smiled. "Because I, lamb, have great news," she said, opening the bottle and pouring out two shots.

Crowley took his glass and eyed it warily. "Have you actually found out what Judah did to me?"

"Not _exactly_ ," Rowena answered. "But I have a theory. So, in a way, I have a present for you as well." She held up her glass for a toast. "Cheers."

Crowley tilted his head in acknowledgment. "Skol," he replied dryly, draining his glass and wincing in distaste. " _Ugh_...wretched stuff."

"Whiskey snob," Rowena sniffed, smiling. "It's fine. More for me, then. Thank you, Fergus."

Crowley nodded and settled into a thick leather sitting chair. "So Mother, do tell me all about this theory of yours."

Rowena smiled. "Well, it appears that to prove it, we'll be taking a trip together, lamb. Won't that be nice?"

Crowley frowned. "That depends. Where?"

"Well, of course, only the most _exclusive_ of destinations for us, Fergus," she replied, her smile widening.

Crowley raised both of his eyebrows in slight alarm. " _Where_?", he repeated warily.

"The depths of Hell," Rowena answered, eyes twinkling as she held up her glass. "Merry Christmas, lamb."

* * *

Happy Holiday, dear readers! See you in 2018! All my best wishes and I hope you get everything (or at least, most) of what you wanted! - WatchingOne


	4. It Isn't Hard to Do

**It Isn't Hard to Do**

"Where's Crowley?" Castiel asked Garth, who was sitting in front of an impressive array of HD displays, all wired to different Hunter networks world-wide. He bit down on a Hot Pocket and raised his eyebrows.

"Which one?"

Castiel looked dumbfounded for an instant, then nodded. "Yes, of course. The Demon one."

Garth nodded and chewed, pointing with his free hand at the schematic of the Resistance HQ floorplan. "Went to Rowena's. Middle of the Mega-Coven."

Castiel grimaced. "Do we _have_ to call it that?" he grumbled.

Garth smiled through a mouthful of food. "Witch's orders."

Castiel sighed. "Fine...thanks," he said, turning and heading for the door. He stopped with his hand on the frame and turned around. "Now that I'm thinking about it...what about the other one...where's he?"

Garth pointed at another place on the map. "With the Ex-Heralds and Jesse," he grunted. "Said he wanted to pick their brain on Vandecourte. You know...Old God here in a hybrid form on Earth and all...he said it was 'fascinating'...and, oh ...what was that other word? Oh yeah – 'unprecedented'." Garth frowned. "Where'd he come from, anyway? I mean, Crowley... _our_ Crowley, is vouching for him and all...but he just kinda popped up, you know?"

Castiel nodded. "You...get any weird...I dunno...smells off of him or anything?"

Garth smiled amiably. "I'm not a bloodhound, Castiel."

"I'm sorry...I didn't mean to...I mean...you being a werewolf and all..."

Garth held up a hand. "Don't worry about it. But , to answer your question, no. He smells like English tea-time, nothing out of the ordinary. At all."

Castiel narrowed his eyes. "And that's...?"

Garth shrugged. "I dunno. Most people...I mean, they are all hiding something, you know? Sometimes _big_ somethings, sometimes small ones...you can smell it coming off of them...kinda _acidey_...intensifies the more nervous they get. But this guy Aleister...he's kinda blank."

Castiel turned fully towards Garth. "Should we be worried?"

Garth shook his head. "I honestly couldn't tell you, amigo. Could be that he's just 100% on the level, and is being up-front with us."

"But?"

Garth leaned forward. "Or he could be so good at hiding something that even a werewolf's senses can't pick it up. And that could be a problem."

Castiel considered this and nodded. "I'll keep an eye on him. A close one. In the meantime, if he's with Jesse and the Heralds, I don't think he'll be too much of a problem. At the moment, Jesse is one of the most powerful people in the universe, he'd be foolish to try anything."

"Good point," Garth agreed, nodding and taking another bite. "Well, if you need anything else...I'll be right here...as _always_."

Castiel raised an eyebrow. "Do you...need a break, Garth? You've been in here an awfully long time."

Garth smiled. "Honestly, I would like to get home to the wife and pups...but man...I know what's on the line here...and honestly, there's no one else out there that I'd trust to keep this dispatching room together." He sagged a little in his seat and swivelled back to the screens.

Castiel frowned. "Garth?"

"Yeah?"

"I'll see what I can do. To get you some help."

Garth looked over his shoulder and smiled. "Thanks, Castiel. I'd appreciate that."

Castiel nodded and walked out into the hallway, heading for Crowley and Rowena. About halfway there, he slowed, thinking.

He then turned on his heel and started heading for Jesse and the Ex-Herald's rooms instead.

* * *

"Mother, what is it exactly that I'm looking for?" Crowley asked, leaning in over the still scrying pool that she had installed in the corner of her suite – a shallow, polished silver basin on four-foot claw legs. Crowley stood on one side of it, Rowena on the other.

"Hell, of course. More specifically, the heart of it."

Crowley frowned. "Yes, mother, it isn't as if I can't recognize the place...but what am I supposed to be looking _for_?"

"Well...anything, really."

Crowley's brow furrowed in confusion. "Not sure that I'm following."

Rowena sighed deeply in exasperation. "Lamb, for the hundredth time, what do you _see_?"

"And for the hundredth time...why don't you stop with the Zen-Master imitation and just _bloody tell me what I'm supposed to be looking for_!" he shouted before looking up at her and smiling sharply. "Please?"

Rowena smirked and stepped back from the scrying pool. "Oh Fergus...honestly."

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes, you know, " Crowley grumbled. He shrugged. "It looked just like it has always looked."

"With one serious exception, Fergus."

"That being, oh mysterious one?"

Rowena crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot impatiently on the concrete floor. "The Demons, Fergus...the souls of the damned...?"

Crowley frowned. "What about them?"

"Did you happen to _see_ any of them?"

Crowley looked up, thinking back. "No. Now that it mention it...I didn't."

Rowena uncrossed her arms and held them out demonstratively to the sides. "And...? That _doesn't_ strike you as a bit...oh, I don't know...odd?"

Crowley shrugged. "Why should it? As far as I was made to understand, Heaven and Hell are closed for business, and have been since Atropos fused all of these realities together."

"Fergus, when she did that, aspects of Heaven and Hell from thousands of reality were fused together. Don't you find it a bit strange that none of those had a place for Angels, Demons or dead souls? Just asking."

"Well, they have to be somewhere, right?" Crowley grunted, annoyed. He walked over to the bar and poured himself a drink.

"Exactly, lamb. You would think that at least some of those aspects would manifest themselves in this fused reality of Heaven and Hell as well, correct?"

"But they don't," Crowley said, nodding and downing his shot. "So..."

"So," Rowena repeated.

"Where are they going?"

Rowena smiled. "Or...more precisely, where have they gone?"

Crowley watched her, frowning, before he realized what she meant. H s eyes widened.

"Waitasecond...are you saying that Judah...?"

Rowena held up her hand. "I'm _not_ sure, Fergus. That's why I want to go there to find out. Problem is, all travel to Heaven and Hell has also been locked up since this new reality came into existence. Complete lockdown."

Crowley leaned forward on the bar. "All those souls..." he whispered, looking at his hand. "The raw power of that..."

"Focus, lamb!" Rowena said, slapping her hand against her leg. "We need to find a way down there first to make sure of that."

Crowley smiled. "And you still think that I have a way in. Is that it?"

Rowena pouted. "Well? Don't you?"

Crowley held up his hands to the sides. "Whatever would make you think that I would? Last I heard, Michael and Lucifer had the entrance rights to both realms. What has actually happened to those means of ingress since their departure is anyone's guess. And, by the way, _don't_ you dare think that I've forgotten how you had me tortured all those months after you tried to seize the throne...I assumed that you were after the so-called 'Keys to Hell' during that time. Now, I'm _sure_ of it."

Rowena narrowed her eyes, her lips still turned up in a curl. "I knew that you had those...oh lamb, it would have been _so_ much easier if you had just told me..."

"You stole my throne!"

Rowena sniffed. "You _let_ me. Fergus, you were so obsessed with those damned Winchesters, a child could have seized the throne from you. Consider yourself lucky it was someone that cared about you..."

"You _tortured me for six months_!" Crowley roared, turning red.

"Exactly. Think how much worse it would have been for you if someone else had taken over."

" _That's it_!" Crowley shouted, throwing his arms over his head and stalking towards the door. "Game's over. I am not giving you the secret to breaking into Hell, and I don't see why you're even bothering to ask!"

Rowena smiled wickedly. "Three reasons. One," she started, ticking off the count on her fingers, slowly pacing around Crowley, "You were the last rightful ruler of Hell, and have just admitted to me that you do, actually, have the way in."

"Emphasis on 'rightful', if you don't mind," Crowley grunted.

"Two," Rowena continued, "It seems apparent that God Himself has imbued you with the souls from the Vault of Hell, and I am the only one that is capable of being able to tell you that for certain - but to do so, we need to travel there - _both_ of us."

Crowley narrowed his eyes. "Still not convinced."

"And three; if you are, in fact, imbued with that much raw power, I am also the only one that can find a way for you to wield it safely, or expel it. Because if you try to use it without some kind of guidance or instruction on your own, it might rip your entire existential self into a hundred-trillion separate atoms. It's actually a minor miracle that you haven't accidentally done that to yourself already." She leaned in close to whisper in his ear. "You, Fergus, could very well be your very own ticking hydrogen-soul bomb."

Crowley smiled weakly and sighed. "Wouldn't Don Cornelius be jealous...ok mother, you win. _Now_ I'm convinced. I'll see what I can do."

* * *

"And he was performing some sort of bonding ritual, you say?" Aleister asked, leaning forward eagerly. "Summoning Deep Ones into our reality so that they could manifest as a host's worst nightmares?"

"Or dream," Jesse added, shrugging. "Whatever was more intense."

"And how many Deep Ones were so hybridized and manifested, would you say?"

"That's hard to say...I wasn't aware of Hastur's involvement in the cult..." Jesse began, shaking his head.

"Shhh-sshhhh!" Aleister interrupted him suddenly, waving his hands frantically. "You mustn't even _speak_ that name..." he hissed in warning.

"What...Hast...?"

"Stop!" Aleister shouted, clapping his hand over Jesse's mouth. Jesse looked down at the hand, then back up, quizzically with one eyebrow raised. Sheepishly and slowly, Aleister removed his hand.

"Sorry...so sorry...but seriously my boy, that particular Old One is very sensitive as to his actual name being uttered aloud. It could, theoretically, summon him here."

Jesse shook his head. "Unlikely. He's dead."

Aleister's eyes twinkled. "Oh, is he now? If I heard your story correctly, he was killed in the past, effectively removing him from the time stream via paradox, am I correct?"

"Yeah, something like that."

Aleister smiled and shook his head. "That's the problem then, isn't it? My friends, The Old Ones _are_ , literally, paradox personified. You may have removed him from the time stream, but I don't seriously think that you've managed to destroy him...there's no counter-balance to something that enormous."

Jesse frowned and looked around at his fellow former Heralds, Kinsey, Leon, Trevor and David. They were sitting around the room, listening intently. They shook their heads at him.

"Not sure we're following you there, chief."

Aleister nodded. "OK, think of it like this; the reason that existence exists at all, is that it is in perfect balance with an equally powerful _non-existence_ \- Order and Chaos - with God and his Angels on one side, and the Old Ones on the other. Everything that we are experiencing is in the maelstrom of colliding force between them. With me so far?"

They nodded at him.

"Good. Has...er...the _Unnamed_ _One_ , was an enormous force of Chaos. You can't simply remove that large of a chunk of Chaos without an equally large part of Order being removed as well. Existence would fail due to the imbalance. That means, logically, that the Unnamed One is still manifest, in one way or another. You simply destroyed his avatar here on the mortal plane."

Jesse frowned. "Unless, something equally as powerful, was, in fact, destroyed on the side of Order."

"Whatever are you getting at?" Aleister asked, brow knitting together in confusion. "What powerful manifestation of Order could have possibly been destroyed here?"

"Michael," came a voice form the doorway. They all turned to see Castiel standing there, listening in the shadow of the door with his arms crossed. "The archangel Michael was annihilated. His destruction actually addressed that exact imbalance that you were talking about. When he was alive, and Hastur was dead, there was an enormous imbalance. As a matter of fact, this began years ago, as soon as Lucifer convinced Michael to start drawing in Dark Energy from the realm of the Old Ones. That's how the Old Ones were able to begin crossing into our realm, despite the Gate being technically intact, through the rituals that Vandecourte was shouldn't have been possible. It's something Crowley and I figured out. A big clue that we both missed at the very beginning of all of this."

"Good Lord..." Aleister answered, turning pale. "Do you mean to tell me that the Archangel Micheal himself is...?"

"Yes, Michael is no more," Castiel said, moving into the room. "Atropos was able to stabilize Creation after the balance was restored. She wouldn't have been able to do it otherwise, and it was a last, desperate attempt anyway. I'm surprised it's actually holding."

"Well then...yes...yes, I suppose if a being as powerful as the Archangel Michael was also removed...my heavens...it is indeed _possible_ that the Unnamed One truly is dead..."

"He's dead," Castiel grunted. "Otherwise none of us would be standing here." His gaze fixed on Aleister. "I would very much like to talk to you Mr. Crowley. Alone."

"Oh...of...of course, "Aleister stammered, standing up and brushing off his suit with his hands. "If you'll all excuse me." There were murmurs of agreement from the group, and Castiel nodded, turning and leaving, Aleister Crowley following right behind.

They turned a corner in the warehouse and found an empty hallway where Castiel stopped and turned to him. Aleister eyed him warily.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Castiel?"

"Just Castiel, thanks," Castiel answered. "And to get right to the point, I'm not entirely sure if I should trust you or not."

Aleister blinked rapidly. "My, yes, that is blunt and to the point, isn't it?" He held up a hand before Castiel could respond. "No no, you are correct, of course." He let out a deep breath. "What is it that I can do or say to help convince you?"

"It shouldn't be difficult," Castiel replied gruffly. "I need to read your thoughts."

"Oh...oh!...And...that _isn't_ difficult, you say?"

"I would only need your permission."

"I see...and ...is it...well...painful?"

Castiel shook his head. "Not with your permission, no."

"I ...I see...ok...alright then...I'll allow you to do it...but... _but_!" he added hastily, holding up a finger. "I have just one request, really...could your possibly please ignore the so-called...er...um..."

"Yes?"

"Browser history?"

Castiel grimaced. "I don't need to look there. Don't worry."

Aleister looked relieved. "Ah. Ok. All's fine then. Have at it," he said, smiling and squaring his shoulders.

Castiel put his hands on either side of Aleister's face, and then looked deep into his eyes.


	5. Someday, You'll Join Us

**Someday You'll Join Us**

"Ah, Castiel, good," Crowley said, looking up from where he was packing a few hidden charms into his suit pockets. "I was going to send someone to go find you."

Castiel stood stock still in Crowley's doorway, mostly in shadow, as soundless as that shadow as well.

"You were looking...for _me_?"

Crowley nodded. "Yes. Why? Were you looking for me?"

Castiel didn't answer. He seemed to be thinking to himself, then he moved into the room.

"I had been. I went to see Aleister Crowley first instead."

Crowley stopped his packing and straightened up, placing his hands in his pockets. "And?"

"I asked to read his thoughts...I needed to determine if he was hiding something from you...from us."

Crowley raised his eyebrows and stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Once again... _and_?"

Castiel met his eyes and shook his head, looking away. "I didn't find anything."

Crowley watched him silently for a few seconds before answering. "And that's a good thing, right, Castiel?"

Castiel shrugged. "Yes. I think I would have felt better if I had found something, though."

"Not sure I'm following you there, Castiel. You are saying that you would have preferred it if he _had_ been deceiving us?"

Castiel shook his head. "Nothing so extreme. Something... _small_...a small, hidden, _something_..."

Crowley shook his head also. "Castiel, don't overthink this. We've been hit from so many places from so many angles, I understand your hesitation, believe me. But it seems in this case as if he's on the level - a source of information and support that we didn't have before, especially regarding the Old Ones. Keep a close eye on him, assuredly, but don't dwell on it to the point of distraction..." He sighed and went back to packing, casually looking back over his shoulder. "So, he was OK with you reading his thoughts?"

"He had no problem with it," Castiel replied, tilting his head. "What are you doing?"

"Arming myself, obviously."

Castiel leaned back a little. "For...what?"

"A little expedition. One that I will be needing your assistance in completing, as a matter of fact."

"Expedition?"

Crowley nodded. "To Hell, to be clear about it."

Castiel's brow wrinkled. "Hell? Isn't it inaccessible?"

Crowley nodded. "It is, that's where you come in."

"Me?"

"Uh-huh. You. You can get in there, where no one else can."

"What? Crowley, I know this isn't new to you, but I'm an _Angel_. How do I break into Hell?""

Crowley smiled. "Specifically because you've done it before, Castiel."

Castiel hesitated. "Are you talking about when I...rescued Dean?" Castiel shook his head vigorously. "Crowley, your people _let_ me do that. Lucifer _wanted_ Dean out of Hell so that they could free him from the Cage. That was his and Azazel's plan all along..." He paused, considering. "In fact, it was Michael that sent me on that mission. If you really want to make the argument, and taking into account Lucifer and Michael's mastery over various time-lines, you could say that it was both Heaven and Hell's plans for me to break in there and set in motion the chain of events that allowed them both to escape the Cage later."

"So they could both ultimately end up dead? Oh, what a devious plan." Crowley asked amused, a slight ironic twist to his mouth.

Castiel frowned and his shoulders drooped. "Well, obviously, the chaotic nature of the energies they were wielding may have had some bearing on what they were actually able to forsee..." he muttered, mostly to himself. "Everything has an edge of dangerous chance to it."

"Except this...this will be a piece of cake," Crowley said, walking over and placing a hand on Castiel's shoulder. "You know the way in – a way that was purposely weakened by the forces of Hell, and possibly Heaven as well, now that you mention it, to allow an Angel to infiltrate it."

Castiel sighed loudly in frustration, "Crowley, as we've also just mentioned, Heaven and Hell are locked down. Michael and Lucifer were the last ones in control of their access to those realms, and there is no way, at least that I know of, to reverse that."

Crowley's grin widened. "Lucky for us we have a small piece of Lucifer as well to counter that."

Castiel looked at him, his face full of confusion. Then, his eyes widened in realization, his mouth opening slightly, dumbfounded. "You...you're..."

Crowley nodded slowly, like mocking praise for Castiel finally catching on. "Yes, Castiel...I'm talking about when Lucifer possessed your vessel. As we all know, Angel possession leaves behind a residue of energy-specific Grace. So, not only are you the Angel that knows a back-way in, you're also the Angel that can pass at least a part of himself off as Lucifer."

Castiel looked unconvinced. "Will it be enough?"

"Can't say. That's where Rowena comes in. She's agreed to analyze the energies involved in the equation, much in the same way she's analyzed the energies of the Cage before cracking it open once before." He clapped his hand emphatically and rapidly on Castiel's shoulder before turning back to his preparations. "Like I said, Castiel, piece of cake."

* * *

Rowena eyed Castiel and sighed, throwing up her hands in frustration. "I don't know if I can make this work, boys. Honestly."

Crowley shifted his feet, visibly upset. "What are you talking about, mother?" he growled.

Rowena glared at him and then spun on her heel, sweeping her arm out. "This, lamb. _This_ is what I'm talking about."

They stood on a red, sandstone plateau in New Mexico, a place that Rowena's Coven, working with Castiel, had identified as being the 'material plane' point of entry into Hell that he had used all of those years ago to break in and raise Dean from Perdition. The night sky above, normally swimming with stars, was practically pitch black, a result of the spell that Rowena had prepared in weakening the barrier between the Earth and Hell, exposing parts of both Realms to them. The only strong light came from the flaming pentagram that was burning Holy Oil on the ground next to them, maintaining their platform between the two worlds.

Rowena's arm stretched out over the sheer drop from the western edge of the plateau. The air next to the cliff _shimmered_ , liquid-like in the dark horizon, as if some barrier separated it and the rough, sandy plateau surface.

"Pick that up," she said, pointing at the ground and looking up at Castiel. Castiel followed her hand, and arched an eyebrow, walked over and picked up a small stone. Rowena nodded. "Now, throw it, if you please, at the barrier."

Castiel reached back, and threw the stone directly into the shimmering air.

It exploded with a large, and surprisingly loud, flash of energy, leaving barely a cloud of dust.

Castiel blinked at Rowena, who flashed him a 'I told you so,' grin. He turned to Crowley. "Did that stone just _scream_? What could make a stone... _what_ are you writing down?"

Crowley had pulled out a notepad and was scribbling furiously. He raised his eyebrows. "What? Oh...nothing...just some ideas...I'm fairly certain that the current President would pay me a _fortune_ for this kind of border security technology..."

" _Crowley_..."

Crowley sighed and tucked the notepad back into his coat. "Castiel, I have to make money somehow...do you have any idea how _non-lucrative_ the record industry is these days?"

"Not my problem. Besides, you're the one that picked that particular new alias. And we have bigger problems to deal with at the moment."

"What? The barrier? Mother...I thought you said it wouldn't be a problem before we set out here. Are you going back on your word? " He tapped his chin, considering. "Not that that would surprise me in the least, but still. Well?"

Rowena rolled her eyes. "I can make it work, actually, and get the...er Lucifer part of Castiel through, just like I said I could."

Crowley crossed his arms over his chest. "The ' _Lucifer-part_ '...mother, what are you not telling us...what happens to the rest of him...?"

Rowena looked up at the spot on the barrier that was still glowing where the rock had struck it.

"Oh, brilliant," Crowley muttered. "Where we need a stable portal for us to move through, what we'll actually be getting is Castiel's _thumb_ making it through while the rest of him disintegrates...screaming."

"Actually, the Grace is not in his thumb, lamb, it's in his..."

"Not important!" Crowley shouted, cutting her off. He shook his head. "Is there any way to make a stable portal? Or do we go back to square one?"

Rowena bit her lip. "Not without more Lucifer-like energy."

Crowley tilted his head. "Energy like Lucifer's? Or specifically Lucifer's?"

Rowena sighed. "Specifically."

Crowley nodded. "Be right back."

A few minutes later, he re-materialized back on the plateau with Jesse. "How much will you be needing?"

Rowena's eyes widened, then she slapped her forehead. "Of course! The Cambrion!"

Crowley nodded. "Powered by Lucifer – a _specific_ mix of Lucifer's Archangelic and Demonic energy." He paused. "We just ….we _are_ going to be needing him in the coming conflict, mother. Can you make sure that you don't drain him? At least, completely that is?"

Jesse paled. "Wait, what? You didn't say anything about..."

Crowley held his hand up, stopping him, but keeping his eyes on Rowena. "Well, can you?"

Rowena smiled. "No problem. He'll be just like...a booster shot, I'll use some of his energy as a shell around Lucifer and Castiel's Grace, and then..."

Crowley waved his hand rapidly in the air. "I don't need the details mother, just please, get on with it. I'm feeling that 'Soul-Bomb' you mentioned ticking away with every single passing second, and I wish to be rid of it as quickly as possible, if you don't mind."

* * *

The fires of Hell burned regardless whether the Demons stoked it or not. In amazingly stark contrast, a bitingly cold wind blew towards the small group as well, fluctuating between flashes of scorching heat, followed immediately by numbing cold. Crowley and Castiel seemed unaffected, Rowena, however, hadn't stopped complaining for a half- hour since their arrival.

"What did you _expect_ , mother, it's _literally_ the Heart of Hell!" Crowley grunted.

"Your throne room was _nothing_ like this," Rowena griped, yelping as a jet of flame snapped at her arm. She brushed at it furiously.

"Yes, well, I had good central air installed for a reason," Crowley shot back. "But generally, this place is _supposed_ to be uncomfortable."

Rowena sniffed and shivered. "Is the Vault like this?"

"No mother, it's climate controlled."

Rowena eyed him evilly. " Smart ass."

Crowley grinned, enjoying her discomfort. "And to think, _you_ wanted a kingdom here."

Rowena pouted. "It would've been different."

"Of that, I have no doubt. Ah, here we are," he answered, stopping short of a massive stone building rising into the black and red swirling air. A stone door stood before them, with several Demonic symbols in stark relief carved out on it. Crowley tapped on a few of them, and then, with a loud, deep, grinding noise, the Vault slid open.

"After you," Crowley said, to Rowena, before turning to Castiel. "Castiel, must you have that Blade out the entire time?"

Castiel glanced down at his Angel's Blade, managing to look slightly embarrassed. "I...I can't help it. I'm hardwired to be on edge here."

"Who on earth could tell the difference...?" Crowley muttered, following Rowena into the Vault.

The interior was dizzying in it's size and scope. It considered the purpose of the structure first, that much was apparent. The overall design was spartan in nature, with several tiers of floors with stone balustrade railings protecting them. There was a short stone pathway between the railings and the walls, in which were an uncountable number of deep nooks carved into the surface.

The detail that were not so standard was the décor. Almost every square inch of the stone surface, including the ceiling and floor, was etched in a grotesque Demonic sigil or illustration; gyrating succubi, dragon-like creatures ripping humans apart, or beasts that seemed to be comprised of mostly teeth, some doing unspeakable things with angels as well. Castiel looked around in un-disguised disgust.

"The level of...blasphemy..." he whispered, looking sickly and green.

Crowley raised his eyebrows, reading a particularly nasty series of Demonic symbols. "Well, the souls here can't be allowed to feel comfortable, or at rest...and this would do it."

Rowena had moved to one of the nooks in the wall, and was peeking in. "Are they...here, I mean...the souls?"

Crowley looked around, his gaze going over every visible surface of the Vault's interior. "No. They aren't." He sighed. "Mother?"

Rowena shook her head. "Yes, this about confirms it. Well, then, since we're here, let's see about putting those souls back, shall we?"

Crowley arched an eyebrow. "You can do that?"

Rowena smiled "Of course I can. But only from here. These stone vessels," she said, indicating the empty nook that she was standing next to, "are designed to hold and attract the souls of the eternally damned. That's why I insisted to be brought here. We need to drain at least some of them out of you, lamb. Or you'll explode."

"I don't want to explode."

"Good, then come over here."

Crowley walked over to Rowena, who pulled out a scroll, unrolled it on a flat surface near the banisters leading to the next tier, and began reciting the spell written there.

When she was finished, she looked back up at Crowley.

And frowned.

"Well?" Crowley asked.

"Hmm."

"'Hmm'?...'Hmm', what?"

"I'm...I'm not sure..."

Crowley looked around him, then bent over one of the nooks, looking around inside of it. "It's still empty. _Why_ is it still empty?"

Rowena, flustered, looked over the spell again, mouthing the words silently, then looked at Crowley. "The power...it's still in you...but...lamb...I'm sorry. I must of made a mistake...it doesn't appear to be the souls from the Vault at all..."

"Then what is it?!"  
"It isn't the souls from the Vault?" Castiel shouted. He had moved back to stand near the entrance of the Vault, as if standing guard. "Then where are they?"

Rowena blinked in confusion. "I...I...I don't _know_..."

"Castiel..." Crowley said quietly in warning..."Castiel, don't stand too close to that mechanism..."

Castiel looked around him, seemingly confused, and with a very off-balanced twist, bumped a lever set into a stone outcrop near the door. Startled, he leaped away from it and out of the Vault.

"Castiel, _no_!" Crowley shouted, sprinting towards the door.

But it was too late. With startling swiftness, the Vault door slammed shut, sealing Crowley and Rowena inside.

"Oh, wonderful," Rowena muttered.

Crowley collapsed against the closed door, breathing hard, and sank down, eyes closed.

"Mother, I don't think you understand."

"Understand what, dear? Just get up and push the correct runes to open the door."

Crowley grinned humorously, eyes still squeezed shut.

Rowena, studying his expression, gasped breathlessly. "No...!"

"'Fraid so, mother."

" _No_...!" Rowena repeated, her voice degenerating into a whine of desperation.

"Once again, yes, mother. The Vault _cannot_ be opened from the inside. And unless Castiel was paying _very_ close attention to the sequence of Runes I used to open it in the first place, we're stuck here."

"For...how long...?"

Crowley let out a deep breath. "Eternity?" He stood back up stiffly and tapped at the door before turning back to Rowena, who had turned ash-white and was wringing her hands desperately together. "So, you wouldn't have happened to bring along a deck of cards, by any chance, would you?"


	6. Living for Today

**Living for Today**

Barney stepped up to the counter. _Finally_ , he thought, wrestling with his waistband to re-situate his trousers on his ample hips.

"Three jumbo dogs, everything on 'em, side of onion rings," he grunted, reaching into his pocket and pressing a wadded up handful of dollars on the faux-plastic red counter.

"Anything to drink with that?" the bored-looking teenager asked, his mouth twisted into an artificial, employee-training inspired 'welcome grin'.

"Diet Pepsi," Barney said, watching carefully for the oh-so-typical snotty eyebrow raise that most fast-food counter jockeys gave the overweight man when he ordered that. To his credit, this one just nodded and hit a few keys on his register.

"That'll be nine-fifty," he said, the receipt printing as he looked up. Barney pushed the wad of bills forward, and the kid picked them up, straightened them with a hint of distaste in his eyes, and counted out Barney's change. The teen looked around him to the person standing behind him.

"Next?"

"This gonna take long?"Barney asked, refusing to get out of the way for the person that was trying to figure out a polite way around him to place their order.

"If you want to take a seat, sir, I can bring your order out to you," the cashier replied smoothly, not a hint of snark in his voice. _Damn, this one is a smart-ass, too clever to directly insult me_ , Barney groused. He mumbled something incoherent and waved his hand dismissively, waddling his impressive bulk into the restaurant and settling into a booth with a huff as the weight came off of his overtaxed legs. He sighed and leaned back in the plush plastic-covered seat, reaching into his pants pocket and pulling out his smartphone. He logged into the restaurant's free WiFi, and promptly began surfing some NSFW sites.

He was opening a site called 'The Fappening Five', when his left hand that he was holding the phone with began to spasm, then gripped the phone so tightly that it's casing creaked.

"The hell...?" he muttered, grabbing his left wrist with his right hand as a shock of lighting-like pain raced along his arm and into his shoulder.

He felt a flash of warm air, then his whole body went cold, his face breaking out into an instant sweat, rivulets streaming down his forehead. He felt as if someone was standing on his chest as he found it suddenly difficult to draw in any air.

"Helllpp..." he managed to murmur before he slipped to the side and spilled out onto the floor face first. He heard a woman scream in surprise and shock before everything went dark.

* * *

"You're not trying very hard," a silky smooth voice said, standing over the very-fresh corpse of one Barney Sutton, aged 48, who had just died of a massive coronary.

"I have no idea what you could mean by that," came the haughty answer, spoken in a deep, European accent. "I did exactly as you said, and received exactly the desired result."

"There was no...imagination involved. You must try this again."

The man sighed, turning to his companion, looking up at his tall, lean, frame and directly into his cold, black eyes. He gestured towards Barney with a lazy wave of his arm. "What kind of imagination was required here, _Magister Mortem_? This man was a walking billboard for coronary disease. It seemed simple enough."

The tall man sighed and smiled wanly. "Roman, if I wanted simple, I would not be bothering with you at all. We need to try again."

Cartaphilus sighed and stared around the restaurant, at the sudden bustle of activity as a crowd had formed around the dead Mr. Sutton. At the people frantically dialing 9-1-1. At the off-duty paramedic futilely trying to give the large dead man CPR. "What, here?"

Death's eyes twinkled. "If you truly want access to my powers, you will have to think for yourself, Roman. Try it. Look around. Analyze the situation."

Cartaphilus looked visibly frustrated. "It was easier to just kill someone if I wanted them dead."

Death shook his head, smiling. "No one said the _true_ power of Life and Death was easy. Now, remember what I told you."

The Roman closed his eyes and nodded sharply once to himself. "Approach the soon to be deceased, and determine the path of their death. Implement this passage, and guide them through it."

" _Bonum_ ," Death answered, watching Cartaphilus carefully. "Now, what does that _mean_?"

Cartaphilus shrugged. "Find the victim, lead them to their death."

Death frowned and shook his head. "No. Again, too simple. You _must_ see more than that to function as the passageway between Life and Death."

Cartaphilus glared dangerously. "I still do not understand your game. And I am growing weary of it."

Death smiled. "Another trait that you will have to learn to rid yourself of. This power that you seek requires a rather very large commitment to an equally very tedious - and might I add - never-ending, job."

"This is not what I wanted."

"Oh, it isn't? You said that you wanted the power to reap the Creator personally. I have agreed to give you that. Or have you changed your mind, now?"

"No! I asked for you to give me the power to kill Him and to make Him _suffer_...now, can you do that, or can't you?!"

"Of course I can. If you are willing to learn the lessons that I am trying to teach you."

Thoughts raced and wrestled through Cartaphilus' narrowed eyes. He finally relented.

"Fine. Explain to me what I must do," he hissed through clenched teeth.

Death moved silently past him and the flurry of activity around Mr. Sutton's body to stand next to the large window looking out onto the busy street. Cartaphilus watched him and then walked over to stand next to him. Death nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Look out there, and tell me what you see."

Cartaphilus shrugged. "Daytime. Traffic. People."

Death frowned. "No. _Try_."

Cartaphilus flushed red with anger, his shoulders tightening. "I don't know what..."

"The woman on the delivery bicycle. Look at her."

The Roman scanned the streets, his gaze finally coming to rest on a slender woman on a bicycle in a yellow and black spandex uniform waiting patiently at a crosswalk for the light to change.

"What about her?"

"What do you _see_?"

Cartaphilus hesitated, thinking about the meaning of the question.

"If you are asking me if she is about to die, no. I don't see that."

Death hung his head, obvious disappointment on his face.

Cartaphilus glanced sideways at him. "What? I see that she will cross the street, enter a building next to here, and continue on her way. I see no aura or probability of death about her."

"You would be Death Incarnate, Roman. What else can you see about her?"

"I do not..."

"The _possibilities_ , Cartaphilus," Death hissed, his tone almost urgent. "What else is there for her? What other probabilities?"

Cartaphilus squinted harder at the woman. "Nothing. What I saw is all there is..."

Death let out a sigh, turning away, shoulders slumped, dejected. "Perhaps...perhaps it is for the best, then..."

"Wait..."

Death straightened up and turned back slowly to the Roman, anticipation showing on his face.

"I...can see..."

"What? Tell me!" Death asked, urgent.

Cartaphilus frowned. "It is just...a flicker..."

"Concentrate on it now! Focus!"

Cartaphilus did as Death asked, the afterimage of the woman flickered...Death had told him what to look for in people approaching death...a path, a fate that was bound to them, an image of their future that only he could read...

"She crosses, but her phone rings, she looks down, the ambulance...coming for Mr. Sutton...it sounds it's horn a second too late...it strikes her at speed, crushing her..."

"Yes? And?" Death asked, excited now. "Is there more...do you see more?"

Cartaphilus grinned. "Yes, more possibilities are coming into her fate...the ambulance misses her...she receives the call...it's her boyfriend. She will accept a marriage proposal tonight...she is pregnant...she will have twins...one of whom shall join the State Department...prevent a war..." Cartaphilus hesitated. "How can I see this far forward? The world should be ending, shouldn't it?"

Death waved his hand. "It is merely a possible branch forming, think nothing of it...concentrate on the possibilities of her _death_ , Cartaphilus, that is what you are here for, isn't it?"

Cartaphilus frowned, considering. "Yes...but what of the other paths? There are several forming now..."

"Ignore them," Death responded, almost gleefully. "Her death, Roman, tell me about her death..."

Cartaphilus turned back, concentrating. "Just the one that I mentioned previously...the ambulance...the rest don't seem to lead to her demise."

Death's shoulders relaxed, and he let out an audible sigh of relief. "There is...hope."

"What's that?" Cartaphilus asked.

"For you," Death replied smoothly. "Now, let me show you how to guide her down that path that you have seen."

"Isn't that interfering with Fate?" Cartaphilus asked. "This is a branch of destiny...if I manifest this specific one..."

Death smiled. "The power that you wish to wield comes with this ability to decide, Cartaphilus - to literally create new paths of Fate." He leaned in closely, whispering. "And one of these shall be the one that you seek – the one that will destroy God Himself."

Cartaphilus felt himself smile. It grew and grew until it covered his entire face, and he felt himself flushing with anticipation.

"Show me," he whispered hoarsely. "Show me everything..."

* * *

Deidre watched the light turn green and stood up on her pedals, looking both ways and pushing hard for the other side.

Her phone vibrated on the strap on her forearm.

She glanced down and grinned. Simon. He had been trying to reach her all day, and she could guess as to why...it had been brewing for quite some time now, and she was _so_ ready for him to ask...

She felt a jolt of adrenaline as the emergency horn blared...too close...far too close...

She was...flying. Sky. Buildings. Ground. A flash.

Then nothing.

No...voices...she heard...strange voices...

"What do we do with her and the late Mr. Sutton? You mentioned moving them along after

their death."

 _Death_... _what_?... _Who was dead_...?

"We cast them out into the Void, Roman. Heaven and Hell are closed, after all."

"The Void? Won't that just strengthen the Old Ones?"

"Of course it will. Why do you think God created Heaven and Hell in the first place? To keep them _here_. He wouldn't simply hand over all of that power to the Void."

 _Heaven_... _Hell_...? _Oh God_... _is it...me_? _Am I_...?

"So, this is just an additional way of you helping me and my cause?"

"Consider it a bonus."

"Excellent. The Old Ones will be pleased. Humans do not handle oblivion very well."

 _Oblivion_...?

"Goodbye, Deidre."

Darkness. No form. No time. Cold. Something... _moved_. Moved in the Dark. Something with purpose.

Deidre...or what used to be Deidre...her identity was but a flickering, fragile thing now... was drawn to it. Something, _anything_ to break up the nothingness of the Void...

When she met the Power that moved there in the Darkness, the end that would not come, Deidre found herself praying for that Void. For the nothingness. Anything... _anything_ else...


	7. to Kill or Die For

**….to Kill or Die For**

Dr. MacCarthy sighed heavily and looked back down at the file on his desk containing the police report. 'Drunk, disorderly and most likely a total nut-job' were the words written in the 'Reasons for Detainment' block on the page. Scrawled off to the side in pencil was 'Thinks he's Jesus, too - good luck with this one, Doc!'

It had to have been Officer Mahonney. He absolutely _loved_ Dr. MacCarthy. Ever since he had verified the Wal-Mart Strangler as a schizophrenic, and thereby effectively keeping him out of California Federal Prison. Instead, the Strangler had been committed for life to the 'posh' Atascadero State Hospital Mental Heath Ward. It didn't seem to matter that Officer Mahonney had never actually even _seen_ that facility - it would have been more humane to have sent him to prison after all – it was still a perceived black-eye for the L.A. Police department, and the good Dr, MacCarthy, who was supposed to be 'on their side', was to blame.

Ever since then, he was steadily brought the worst of the worst - the absolute dregs of the Los Angeles mentally ill. The poor souls who were literally, in some cases, absolutely barking mad.

Take this one for example.

Police had picked him out outside of Grauman's Chinese Theater preaching – no, _screaming_ – biblical scripture at the top of his lungs. Revelations, actually. All of the juicier parts of it.

And, he had come dressed for the part.

Dr. MacCarthy glanced up to take another look at the poor man, who, trussed up in a straight-jacket, and dosed with about twice the normal limits of Diazepam and Haloperidol, was sagging off to the side of his chair, glassy-eyed and muttering to himself. He wore a _literal_ crown of thorns, which the police had refused to remove, or let Dr. MacCarthy remove, without ' _proper_ medical supervision'. _Assholes_ , Dr. MacCarthy thought. _Just another back-ended insult directed at me_. _And this time at the expense of a patient I am a board-certified medical doctor, And they damn well know it, too_. The patient was also dressed in a brown, shabby, hessian sheet with crude sandals. His long beard and unkempt hair definitely fit the bill as a Jesus look-alike. He was even Middle-Eastern, so he even matched the historical region.

Dr. MacCarthy's eyes flicked up to the Officer in the small room with him, standing guard. The Officer smirked and winked at him, folding his hands in front. _Jerk-off_. He reminded himself silently to see about applying to some more private practice groups and get the hell out of this State job, prestige be damned.

"Could you please try again to tell me your name?", the doctor asked evenly and calmly in a well-practiced and honed tone. Not too friendly, not too harsh. Also not too monotone. One could never tell what could trigger an unstable individual. "It would help us all get out of here faster."

The patient continued to mumble to himself, drooling a bit at the corners of his mouth. The doctor leaned forward, trying to make sense of it. _Any_ of it.

"...the seven angels which had the seven trumpets prepared themselves to sound. And I heard a great voice out of the temple saying to the seven angels, _Go your ways, and pour out the vials of the wrath of God upon the earth_."

Great. Just great. Well, at least it wouldn't be boring.

Dr. MacCarthy shook his head, sighing, and leaned back in his squeaky office chair, tenting his fingers. He had gone to Sunday school as a kid, and as far as he could tell, the quotation was accurate. So the guy was not just rambling, he was committed and knowledgeable. And he had also, unquestionably, completely snapped.

Time to try another angle here.

"Can you tell me something else then? Why Revelations? Do you also know, say, Leviticus? Numbers? Luke?"

The man stopped muttering, much to the doctor's surprise. His brow wrinkled, then he shook his mop of hair slowly from side-to-side.

"No...no...Revelations. It must be Revelations Only thing pertinent now. The rest...the rest is..." He waved his hand in the air and let out a dry bark of laughter. "Gone. Meaningless. All gone."

Dr. MacCarthy leaned forward, hoping to seize upon the opening.

"You can hear me then, can't you? Look, if you just tell me your name, I can maybe help with the rest of what you need to tell me. But I'm going to have to start somewhere. Do you understand?"

The man paused for a long time, then nodded.

"I am the Son of Jehovah, named the Christ, who was the Lamb. I am also the Alpha and the Omega. I am the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac. I am the Lion returned, named Judah." He paused, tilting his head and staring upward, as if listening to someone speaking over his head. "Of course, Charlie, I won't forget. I am the Holy Spirit, completing the Trinity...what? No." He shook his head vigorously. "It is not the Father, the Son and the Holy _Mother_ , it is the Holy _Spirit_ that is the Holy Trinity." He paused again and winced to himself. "I don't care how sexist it sounds, Charlie, this is how it is written." He glanced off to the side and back to the doctor, frowning. "She...or, I should say, _we_ , if you want to be completely accurate about it...always hated that part."

Dr. MacCarthy let his pen drop to the desk and rubbed at his forehead. _OK_ , _scratch that_. _Rambling lunatic it is then_ , he thought, disappointed. A nice case of disassociation would have been a welcome change of pace.

"Allright Officer, I've made my assessment. Wheel him back to the third floor holding area to await processing and post a guard. Then we're shipping him to Willowbrook. Arrange the ride, if you please." He flipped to the last page in his standard formula, picked his pen back up, and signed it with a flourish. He held out the paper to the officer and watched him roll the poor man out of his office and down the hall.

 _I need a drink_ , he thought, looking at his watch and noting with more than a small amount of depression that he still had three and a half hours left to go on his shift.

The lights went out in his office.

He frowned and fumbled on his desk for his smartphone. He flipped the case open and swiped down, pressing the 'Flashlight' button. He waved the screen at the door, seeing if the lights in the hallway were still on out there.

He frowned.

There _was_ light, but it was seemingly too bright...and _pulsing_...

He stood up from his desk and jogged over to the door, opening it and peeking out.

He nearly went completely insane on the spot.

The basement in the precinct where his office was, was _gone_. In it's place was a sandy, windy landscape, with green shrub brushes and trees scattered all around. It looked very much like Jordan, which the doctor had visited once in his youth. Standing on a medium-sized hill was the patient, but no longer drugged-up or rambling. He stood ramrod straight, his hands spread out to his sides towards the heavens.

In the sky above him were seven round portals, cut out of the sky like stained glass. The first six were shattered, with spider-web like cracks covering their surfaces. Pure _Darkness_ seeped out of them, pressing at the light all around them, as if trying to consume it. As a result, the sky flashed in a wild pattern, pulsing, almost like a racing heartbeat.

On the hill under the first six seals lay bodies, still, but contorted, as if in great pain. From each of their backs sprouted great, burnt, cracked wings. With horror, Dr. MacCarthy realized that their eyes were burned completely out of their skulls, leaving only ghastly, deep sockets. In each of their right hands, they clasped a trumpet, held tightly to their dead chests.

The patient had oriented himself towards the seventh portal, which was still intact and glowing with light – pulsing – and all across it's surface were strange, intricate symbols.

"GABRIEL!" the patient shouted in a deep, bellowing voice that made Dr. MacCarthy's knees turn immediately to water, sending him prostrate to the ground. "THE TIME IS NOW!" He reached into his robe and pulled out a shining, golden trumpet, identical to the ones that the dead Angels (for they could be no other thing, the doctor realized in horror and awe) were clutching in their hands.

He managed to turn around on all fours and scramble back into his office. He slammed the door behind him, gasping for air as his heart threatened to beat out of his chest.

With a grunt, he flung himself towards his desk, opening the top drawer and scrambling for something hidden there. He let out a small cry of relief as he found it, held it to his lips and kissed it, sinking down behind his desk and holding it in both hands like a life preserver.

He began to pray, his hands wrapped around his father's old crucifix. The old man had been a devout Irish Catholic, and, at the moment, Dr. MacCarthy couldn't have been happier about that fact.

"Our Father...Who Art in Heaven...Hallowed be Thy Name...Thy Kingdom Come...Thy Will be Done..." he whimpered in the darkness, eyes squeezed shut, trying desperately to make any kind of sense of everything he had just seen, before the insanity of it overwhelmed him.

* * *

Jesse pounded insistently on Aleister's door.

He heard some motion behind it, and stepped back impatiently.

The door creaked open, and a bleary and red-eyed Aleister Crowley stared back in confusion at him.

"Young man, do you have any idea what time it is?" he complained.

Jesse stared back, dumbfounded, but also irritated. "As a matter of fact, yes, it's close to _noon_ ," he shot back. He hesitated, looking Aleister up and down.

"You OK? You look...I dunno...pale."

Aleister was silent for a moment, glaring at Jesse in confusion, then he seemed to recover himself. "Noon? Really?" He grunted and made a show of straightening his pajamas with his palms. "I apologize then."

Jesse frowned. "But...you're all right? You're not sick or anything?" He smiled. "I can actually fix that, you know."

Aleister flinched visibly and held up his hand. "Oh, no, absolutely not necessary." He thought about it for a second and frowned himself. "Oh...oh, not to seem rude or anything...it's just...it's just that I'd like to leave certain things to nature, if you take my meaning."

"Uh...Ok..." Jesse answered, then shook his head, re-focusing. "Hey, I need your help...I think."

Aleister tilted his head. "You...'think'?"

"Uh, yeah, you see, Gabriel's gone, and..."

"The Arch-Angel, you mean?" Aleister interrupted, flabbergasted. "I mean...I'm still getting used to the fact that I'm walking around amidst..."

"Yeah, well, you'll get used to it...well, maybe not _Gabriel_ , but still..."

"I'm not sure how I can help you, young man."

Jesse combed his bangs back with his fingers nervously. "Well, normally, I'd go find Castiel and Crowley when something like this comes up...but it turns out that I can't find _them_ anywhere either..."

Aleister frowned. "Really? What about the...oh...what was her name...? Riley? Rhianna?"

"Rowena," Jesse corrected him. "Gone."

Aleister blinked rapidly in surprise. "I...well, I _see_ now. And what is it that you think _I_ can do to help you?"

"Well, you were the last one to see Castiel around – yesterday, after you were talking with us - right?"

"Yesssss?" Aleister answered cautiously.

"Did he happen to mention anything to you? Maybe give us a clue as to what they're up to and where they went?"

Aleister shook his head. "Oh, no, no, nothing like that, I'm afraid. He simply wanted to make sure that I was 'on the up-and-up', so to say."

Jesse blinked. "What? Why did he want to do that?"

Aleister shrugged. "I'm sure that I couldn't tell you. Well, suffice it to say, I passed, apparently." He walked over to his bed and sat down on it with a groan, rubbing at his forehead.

Jesse followed him into the room. "Man, you look like _literal_ hell. Are you sure...?"

Aleister waved him off again. "No, just a momentary lapse of weakness. It will pass, I assure you. Thank you, all the same." He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "So, young Jesse Turner, what is our next move, then? Do we seek out the absentee Angel, or go out trying to determine where our fearless leaders have gotten off to?"

Jesse sighed. "Castiel and Crowley, I guess. If anyone would have any idea of where Gabriel went, it's them."

"Excellent. Then, allow me to put on some trousers, and I'll be right along."

"Sure, I'll be in the main hall," Jesse said, walking out.

Aleister watched him go, then, when he was sure that he had left, held up a shaky, pale hand in front of his face. He touched it to his nose, and it came back bloody.

He stared at the blood for a few seconds in seeming disbelief, then hastily wiped it off on a tissue and began to get dressed.

* * *

"Father, what do you think you're doing?" Gabriel asked from the base of the hill.

Judah turned around, grinning like a maniac. "Ah! The final Seal...welcome, my Son! I must admit, I am surprised and impressed that you came alone."

Gabriel frowned deeply. "Wow...I mean... _wow_...that's a great look on ya, Dad. Very...I dunno...Burning Man...with just the right touch of retro Bethlehem."

Judah's eyes danced and glittered. "Are you ready, then?"

Gabriel sighed. "Dad, get down from that ridiculous hilltop and cut this out, please. I'm only going to ask you once."

Judah's smile faded, and his face began to contort with rage. "There was a time, my son, that you would have welcomed the End with open arms, and done my Will without question...before...before you met those _Winchesters_ ," he spat out their names like it was poison."Is there nothing of the dutiful Archangel left in you? Is there now only defiance of my Will?" As he spoke, his features shifted, contorted - in one second they were Middle-Eastern, in the next, Aboriginal, male, female, black, white, Asian, finally settling back into the visage of Judah.

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "Wow, Dad, you should really get that looked at..."

Judah clenched his teeth. "You make a joke of _me_? Is this how far your impudence has gone?"

Gabriel smiled weakly and shook his head. "I wish it were that easy. Father...Father...I know what's happening to you. The Darkness, the Chaos beyond is winning. Come down here, we can talk this over."

Judah stood defiantly, eyes smoldering. "You offer me...pity now?" He spat to the side. "How far you have fallen, Gabriel. Come. The time is nigh. You have served your purpose, but there is no cause for it now. Come to me now, and all shall be forgiven. Let it end, my Son. You can't tell me that you yourself have not yearned for this." His eyes closed slowly. "I've reached too far, Gabriel. I have sought to find Order in the Universe. Wrenched it out, twisted it to my Will. And all it has brought is pain and misery."

"Is that really what you think?" Gabriel answered softly. "That ythere's no joy, happiness, beauty or love? I don't believe that. Not for a second."

Tears began to streak down Judah's face. "Let it end, son. Please. Come to me. Let us break this final Seal together."

"I gave the Tablet to Castiel, Father. You know which one I'm talking about."

Judah stood stock still. The wind even cut off, and the two of them stood there like a tableau in a museum.

"Yes. That was...a very wise thing for you to do, I suppose. So, that is how you wish it to end, son?"

Gabriel shook his head rapidly. "No! No, I don't, you stubborn old goat! But I will if you leave us no choice."

"This _is_ the only way..."

"You are _literally_ frikkin' God!" Gabriel shouted back. "You can change this on a whim!"

Judah's shoulders sagged. "If only..." he shook his head. "It's not so simple, Gabriel! The Old Ones, their darkness is too powerful now. The damage that Michael and Lucifer did...it is irreversible..."

Gabriel stepped forward, hope lighting up his face.

"No, Father, not irreversible., just difficult! Come on, fight! Fight with me, one last time. You just have to want to, and you know it! Don't give up, Father...fight!" He reached the summit and placed his hands on Judah's shoulders, turning him gently towards him. He looked into his pained eyes, pleading. "Fight... _please_."

Judah stared at him, and smiled.

"You don't understand. And you doN't trust me. Also - very wise. But you will. I promise. And I'm sorry. So very, very sorry..."

Gabriel felt a pressure inside of his chest, and looked down in surprise and disbelief. Judah's hand was inside of his torso, twisting. It withdrew, slowly, bloodlessly, grasping a pure, glowing ball of Archangel Grace.

"But sometimes, my son, the Darkness has to win."

Gabriel, stunned, stumbled backwards, drunkenly down the hill, staring up at Judah in disbelief. "No...Father... _no_..."

Judah turned slowly and reached the hand with Gabriel's Grace into the sky. It seemed to stretch into eternity, touching the Seventh , intact Seal there.

Gabriel's eyes widened in shock and fear as he saw a figure manifest itself in front of that Seal, a perfect copy of himself, grand wings sweeping across the sky, and he knew it to be his very essence, his very soul.

It raised a golden trumpet to it's lips, it's mirror-like, golden eyes shining in the light.

A clarion sound came from the trumpet, echoing perfectly across the entirety of the world, of existence itself.

And then, with a screeching, horrifying crash, the Seventh Seal cracked and broke, it's shards scattering and raining themselves all around the hilltop and Judah, who stood there, arms outstretched triumphantly.

There was a pause. Pure silence. Then, from seemingly very far away...

 _Screams_. The deep, hollow, beast-like screams of pure madness, pure chaos.

The Old Ones, after an eternity of imprisonment, were free.


	8. there's no Countries

**….there's no Countries**

Sally Sanders checked her straight, frizzy hair in the mirror again, gave it a couple of quick idle flips with her fingers and sighed. It would do. She got this job for her hard-nosed, no-excuses and take-no-prisoner attitude, not for her looks.

Just a few more years, and maybe she could get out of it. _No one_ , not even the ultra-conservative Sally Sanders, could put up with her current boss's crap for longer than that.

She breathed heavily again and headed out to the podium to face the press. The White House Seal greeted her on her right, and she tried to focus on it on the way out.

 _Presidential Press Secretary_ , _Presidential Press Secretary_ , she repeated to herself in her head like a mantra. Get through this, and this would be a phenomenal thing to put on a resume or, better yet, a book deal...

She just wished she didn't have to lie so _much_ for the dumb S.O.B during these things. She thought that she could literally feel bits of her immortal soul being stripped away from her every time that she did.

She gathered her strength and looked out at the room of reporters. They were all a bit...white and ashen looking, for lack of a better description...they looked panicked, and were staring at her expectantly. Sally bit her lip and frowned, looking down at her notes. She scanned them quickly, seeing nothing out of the ordinary on them...so, what was with the shocked faces? She felt her stomach drop...

"Miss Sanders!, Miss Sanders!" an excited a reporter from the front row called urgently before she actually got settled. She glanced up at him, recognized the logo on his official press credentials and shook her head.

"This is not the period for questions from the reporters, Mr. Ritzer, as I'm sure all you professional folks at CNN are well aware of, so, do you want to keep to protocol here, or do you need to be escorted out?"

Ritzer's jaw dropped in disbelief. "...uh...you... _seriously_ don't want the opportunity to comment on the current situation?", he asked, his voice almost breaking.

Sally frowned again, and re-scanned her notes. _What in God's name had the old moron done now_?

"I don't see anything here out of the ordinary that requires such a breach of etiquette, here, Mr. Ritzer. Do I have to repeat my warning to..."

Ritzer's eyes practically bugged out of his face. To Sally's growing dismay, many of the other reporters shared the same expression, even the ones on 'her side'... _not good_. He had obviously done or said something _extraordinarily_ stupid, even for him...

"You...you...don't even _know_ , do you..." Ritzer practically whispered, sitting down slowly in his chair. "The effing President doesn't even _effing know_..." He half-laughed, half-sobbed, sinking forward into his seat, his face going into his hands, body shaking in a wracking motion that could have been uncontrolled laughing or crying, Sally couldn't tell which.

 _The hell_...? Sally took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. "All right, Mr. Ritzer, you win. What would you like to ask me – and I'm warning you, it better be good, and not some fake news crap."

Ritzer's body shook one more time and raised his eyes to her. They were red and lined with tears. Sally felt herself jerk back a little. _Had he lost his damned mind_?

"Just turn on the television, you dried-up old harpy," Ritzer said. And with that, he got up, shaking his head and headed for the door. He waved his arm in the air in a sign of rude dismissal.

"Well...that kind of language and behavior is hardly called for, Mr. Ritzer, even from someone from _your_ network," Sally called to his retreating back. She frowned. "And, just to add to that, as you _should_ also be well aware of, no television or cell phones are allowed in White House briefings without my _express_ approval..."

"Fuck you," Ritzer mumbled back at her over his shoulder. "Turn on the fucking TV, moron."

" _What_?!" Sally recoiled, actually flustered. "Allright , that's _it_... security? Escort him out of the building, please, and revoke his credentials. You are banned for _life_ , Mr. Ritzer, congratulations."

He waved again and shook his head, smiling. "Yeah, what a horrible threat. For life...all ten minutes left of it, right? Have fun in hell, Ms. Sanders." With that he walked out of the White House Press Room. Sally frowned when she saw that security had not done as she had ordered. She glared at one of the secret service agents on duty and indicated her head demonstratively towards the door.

" _Well_ , what are you waiting for?"

The agent hesitated, then lowered his head. "Um, Ms. Sanders...maybe you really ought to turn on that TV after all..." He looked back up at her, and she saw the fear in his eyes.

 _What the_... _why is everyone acting so_...o _h, fuck me_ , _did the senile old shit actually start World War III_? she thought, fumbling in the podium's top drawer for the controller to the LCD television behind her.

She felt her blood draining into the pit of her stomach as she clicked the screen on, dreading what it could possibly be that had everyone so freaked out.

The picture came on to Fox News. It should have been the morning show, but instead it was a helicopter camera, high in the air off of the coast of Manhattan. She watched as the camera panned shakily across the bay leading to the Atlantic.

There was what appeared to be a swirling black void in the air out over the ocean. From it, several long, spiked, writing tentacles descended into the sea, churning it into a frenzy. Sally's eyes widened in shock, her mind racing to try to comprehend what she was seeing there. Long pathways of rough stone were rising from the waves, and on those were thousands of...forms.

The camera zoomed in on them, and Sally felt herself stepping back from the television. They were large, black, oily creatures, heavily muscled and covered in stringy, dark kelp. On every one of their grotesque, misshapen faces were rows and rows of _teeth_...

Somewhere from what seemed like very far away, she heard the remote that she had been loosely holding in her hand fall and clatter to the thinly-carpeted floor. Her chest heaved in-and-out in deep breaths as she tried to comprehend the otherworldly scene unfolding out there.

"It ...it ...looks so... _real_..." she heard herself mutter, not making any sense.

"Um...Ms. Sanders?" a voice said from the audience.

Sally forced herself to turn her head slowly to the reporter, looking down automatically at his press badge. _Fox_ , she thought, feeling an incomprehensible sense of relief. _At least it'll be an easy question to answer_...Somehow, she knew that this all _had_ to be Ritzer and CNN's fault...they were behind this...whatever _this_ was...Some fake, corrupt-Hollywood trick...her 'people' would get the message back on track...get rid of this side-show distraction. She knew somewhere deep down, where logic and reason still functioned within her, that this made no sense, and was completely irrational. She still couldn't help thinking that it _had_ to be true...

"Ms. Sanders," the Fox reporter repeated, licking his dry lips. "What...what does the President plan to do about this...?"

Sally Sanders straightened up, and looked the reporter right in the eyes. "I'll...I'll have to go wake him up. He usually sleeps until around 11 on work days... _much_ longer on weekends...thanks everyone. That's enough for today."

She stepped quickly out of the briefing room, leaving behind a silent and stunned White House Press Corps, moving quickly down the hall towards the White House's private quarters. She let out a sigh of relief, wondering why she felt so good all of a sudden.

When she reached the President's assistant, and ordered him to go wake the old bastard up, she realized that it was because what she had just said was the truest statement she had said in that room since she had taken the job.

Inexplicably, she found herself smiling widely.

* * *

Crowley tapped absentmindedly on the dry stone banister and sighed.

"I don't suppose Castiel could have gotten _lost_ getting back here with the cavalry, right?"

Rowena groaned in exasperation. " He wouldn't just leave us down here, would he have, son? Have you two had a falling out that I dinna know about?"

Crowley rolled his eyes, letting out a deep breath. "Not that I'm aware of. And he wouldn't do that..." He paused, considering. "In fact, I'm pretty sure he _can't_ actually do that, it's against every moral code that he's got hard-wired into that stubborn Boy Scout's brain of his."

"Then what's _taking_ him so long?!" Rowena complained, her voice echoing off of the vast, empty stone walls and empty alcoves. Crowley winced in mental agony.

Steeling himself, he turned around to look up at Rowena. She had her arms draped halfway over a railing a few stories up, her head hanging dramatically down in a posture of utter boredom and defeat. She looked up wearily at Crowley and gave him a sarcastic half-smile.

"He _has_ just left us down here, hasn't he? He wanted to get rid of ya, because of some argument that you had." She nodded sharply and straightened up, looking around. "There's got to be some other way out of here..."

Crowley sighed loudly. "Mother, we've been over every nook and cranny of this miserable vault several times already. We've missed nothing." He sat down on a step and hung his head. "The truth is, we're stuck here until he comes back to get us out."

"Or until something _else_ finds us first, Fergus. We are in Hell, if you remember."

"An empty Hell, mother. No one but Castiel knows we're down here anyway..."

There was a scraping sound at the door.

Crowley and Rowena simultaneously raised their heads towards it and tilted them to the side.

"Castiel?" Crowley shouted doubtfully.

The scraping got louder, and deeper. The door began to shudder. Crowley stood up slowly and backed up the staircase away from it. Rowena stood back from the railing.

The impenetrable Vault of Souls door suddenly exploded inward, sending a shockwave of large stones and rubble clattering across the floor. Smoke billowed in, obscuring the entrance. A single large, smoking piece of the destroyed door skid across the ground and hit the staircase near Crowley's feet, rolling and spinning to a stop.

"... _Castiel_?"

Dark shapes started sliding into the Vault. Crowley backed up a couple of more steps as he began to recognize their forms.

Deep Ones.

Dozens of them poured in, snapping, snarling, wet skin dripping onto the ground. The air turned colder, and something...else...came floating in, a mass of limbs and eyes in a pulsating, grotesque pillar of darkened flesh nearly four meters high. Crowley could literally feel the waves of power and pure malice emanating from it, the very air around it shimmering and warping like waves off of the ground on a hot summer day. Somehow instantly, _undoubtedly_ , Crowley knew that it had to be an Old One...

"Crooooowwwwwlllleeeeyyy..." it hissed, the sound penetrating his ears and literally shaking the walls.

"Oh bother..." Crowley said, stepping further back up the staircase, bracing himself to run.

* * *

"What is everyone looking at?", came the voice over Jesse's shoulder. He and the rest of the Resistance were in the main hall, crowded around a television set that had been pulled out to sit against the main stage where they would hold briefings.

Jesse looked back in surprise. "Castiel? Man, where the hell have you been? Is Crowley back too?"

Castiel looked down at the others huddled around the TV. Aleister looked back at him, and Castiel shook his head. "No. He's still out on a personal mission."

"Helluva time for it," Jesse grunted. "Whad'ya make of all this?"

Castiel frowned. "All of...what?"

"Dude, get a Smartphone..." Jesse muttered, nodding towards the TV screen. Castiel looked down and frowned.

The screen was a shot of the coast of Los Angeles. Several dark forms moved onto the beach there, walking off of raised stone-like pillars that had appeared in the surf. The camera panned up and down the beach, and Castiel's eyes narrowed as he made out their details.

"Deep Ones..." he murmured, raising an eyebrow. Aleister nodded in agreement.

"Undoubtedly. An entire army of them it seems."

Castiel frowned. "Just here in Los Angeles?"

Jesse shook his head. "Nope, it's worldwide. There's millions of them. They're invading _everywhere_."

Castiel shook his head. "No, Jesse. This isn't an invasion." Several heads turned away from the TV towards him. "It's an occupying force. Look at the sheer number of them..."

He turned away and looked up at the skylight. The sun was dimming, as if a gigantic shadow was settling in front of it.

"They've already won," Castiel whispered, as the sky went dark.


	9. And the World

**And the World...**

The turret on the M1 Abrams tank pivoted smoothly with a deep whirring sound, it's well-oiled and tuned machinery settled into place as Specialist Poole looked into his scope one more time at his target, swallowing nervously.

He'd only seen action so far on firing ranges and against simulated opposition forces in training exercises. He never figured he'd actually get deployed, at least not like _this_ , racing down a rocky beach embankment with a hundred other tanks, hell the entire armored battalion in the good ol' US of A, to stop some kind of invasion from...

…. _hell_ , he realized, he still had _no frikkin' clue_ as to what these things were. No one did.

They had been crawling out of the sea all over the world, working their way inland. National Guard troops had been almost instantly overwhelmed. From the radio chatter, he had heard that Europe had gone dark in less than an hour, having only limited ground forces to respond to this kind of threat. It seemed like only Russia, China and the US were hitting back.

And boy, did they want to hit back hard.

Inside the cockpit, there was only the roar of the jet-fueled engine, muffled by his helmet and the radio squawk – squad leaders giving final instructions as to position and vectors of fire as the tank line rolled slowly to a stop.

He looked back into the scope.

The nightmarish mass of creatures swarmed all over the beach, foothills and sand-berms next to them. They moved almost like a liquid; graceful, but through the magnified view, he could determine just how brutishly massive and horrifying each one of those fanged monsters really were.

Something even _bigger_ churned just off the coast, hidden in the waves. He'd heard that the US Navy would be dealing with whatever _that_ was - to the tune of about twenty some-odd attack subs and an entire destroyer group. Whatever it was, it was about to have a _very_ bad day.

They had all stopped, organized into their firing lines. He heard the communication begin for the artillery fire. Soon, the whole coastline would be lit up like the Fourth of July. He checked his left and right target indicators once again, going over in his head where and when he was going to saturate the area. Once the shells began to land, it wouldn't be possible to pick out individual targets anymore. This was a turkey shoot. The enemy had no visible weapons, and they couldn't intimidate 80-ton reinforced armored vehicles armed with 120mm cannons with just teeth and claws.

The ground shook and his scope lit up. He squinted , even against the built-in anti-flare guard in his viewscreen. The report of exploded artillery rocked the tank back and forth gently on it's treads. The order to open fire screeched over the cacophony of violence.

He let it loose. All of it. He opened with the M1028, sending wave after wave of 9.5mm tungsten shells into the creature's mass. He followed that with airburst rounds, in case anything was laying low. Then he repeated the cycle. He had no idea how long it went on, or how much damage he was doing. Truth be told, it was all a mass of smoke and fire now. He heard the telltale ripping sound of A-10 Warthogs in the air sending Vulcan-Cannon rounds into the monsters – essentially a clean up strike. Nothing could have survived that.

"Case fire! Cease fire! Cease fire!" came the loud exclamation from the commander through the headset. Specialist Poole let out a deep breath in a huff and leaned back away from his controls. He glanced back at his Track Commander and smiled.

"Nothing left but a pink mist, huh T.C.?" he said, his voice carried electronically over the internal microphone. The Track Commander, Sergeant First-Class Warren, smiled back and shook his head.

"Let's frikkin' hope so. Did you get a good _look_ at those things?"

"Tellin' ya, T.C., teeth as big as my Dad's buck-skinnin' knife back home...whad'ya suppose they were, anyway..."s

"Holy shit! _Holy shit_!, They're comin', they're comin!" came a screech over the headset, making Poole wince. He grimaced. That had come over the _internal_ comm...

There was a banging from the driver's hatch. He was trying to open the access door, but the turret was pivoted away.

"Private Simmons? What the hell are you talking about?" Sergeant Warren called into the headset.

"They're attacking the tanks! They're ripping right through 'em... _holy God_! Open the frikking door!"

The turret crew looked at each other, shocked.

The Assistant gunner, Private First-Class Lowden, began to shout into the mics. "Don't turn this thing Sarge! You'll give those things a way in here!"

The Ammo Loader, Private 'Red' Simmons, stood up and promptly punched him in the jaw, knocking him back into the wall of the ammo rack.

"That's my goddamned brother, you shit-head!" He whipped his head around to Sergeant Warren. "Sergeant! Please!"

Sergeant Warren watched all of this, eyes wide. He shook his head briefly to clear it. "... _the fuck_ is going on..." he muttered into the microphone, swiveling the turret to allow the driver's door access and simultaneously standing up in his seat and popping open the top hatch to take a look outside.

The driver's door banged open, and Private Cahill Simmons came scrabbling through, sweating and as pale as a ghost. He slammed the door behind him, breathing hard. He looked up at where Sergeant Warren was standing on his chair and his eyes went as wide as saucers.

"Sarge! Get the hell down from there!"

Sergeant Warren didn't need the prompt, he was already ducking back into the turret, slamming the hatch behind him. "Crew served! Crew served"" he screamed, panicked. The tank crew immediately started grabbing for the mounted weapons next to their individual stations, training taking over automatically. Poole slammed down the ammo belt in his SAW and whipped the short barrel around towards the driver's door.

Five thick, long claws slammed into the compartment with a screeching sound- right through the three-inch thick metal door leading to the driver's compartment. Sergeant Warren and the crew stared at them in horror as the began to tear side-to-side, ripping out ribbons of metal like they were made of tissue-paper.

Sergeant Warren slammed his foot against the pivot lever, and the turret spun crazily to the side, kocking them all to the side, off-balanced. The claws and part of a dark, slimy hand were instantly severed, provoking a blood-curdling howl from the creature on the other side and spraying them all with cold, dark, foul-smelling blood that dripped slowly down the inside of the turret walls.

The turret began to rock back and forth as the things outside began to slam into it. They could hear metal being torn violently away. Outside, the strafing runs from the A10's began to pick up in earnest, the targets dangerously close to the tank line. They also heard the rotating blades of Apache attack helicopters swooping in, their own mini-guns joining the concerto. There was the sound of multiple impacts against the side of their tank, the scream from one or two of the attackers, and then everything went quiet.

Poole scanned around at the other sweating, frightened faces in the turret, all huddled back, weapon barrels pointed out at the turret entrances and walls.

"How many were out there, T.C.?" he whispered, not trusting to speak too loudly. They could hear the A10 strikes continuing, moving off down the line, and the sound of small arms fire sporadically outside.

Sergeant Warren shook his head. "Not many. A few. _Damn_. Couple dozen or so. But the way those mothers _moved_..." He squeezed his eyes shut.

"All clear! All clear!" the call came over the headset from the external comm. They looked at each other in disbelief, then Sergeant Warren raised a shaking hand to the 'Send' lever on his helmet.

"Uh...command... this is Echo 1180, please confirm...was that an 'all-clear'?"

"Roger that 1180, all-clear. All remaining forces eliminated."

The Sergeant let out a deep breath and smiled. "Roger that..." He looked back down at his crew and frowned. "I'm...I'm gonna take a quick look is all...if I see anything, I'm buttoning us back up, clear?" They nodded at him in turn, and he nodded back, obviously not thrilled with the idea. He steeled himself and took a deep breath in, then reached up and popped open the hatch.

Slowly, carefully, he looked out.

The crew all watched him, tense, waiting.

"Sarge?"

There was no reply.

" _Sarge_...?!"

"No, no...it's good. All good. Come on out..." Sergeant Warren finally answered, sounding very relieved. He climbed out of the turret and they could hear his footsteps moving along the outside, then jumping off towards the ground.

One by one, the crew began to relax, taking off their sweat-soaked helmets and climbing up after their Track Commander. Poole was the last to go, instructing Cahill to stay inside and monitor further communications.

Poole squinted against the setting sun as he surveyed the scene outside. Most of the crew was standing on the roof of the tank, weapons still gripped tightly in their hands, staring at the carnage. Sergeant Warren was on the ground, looking out at the ocean.

Poole scanned the tank line, disbelief and pure shock running through his head.

Dark, misshapen, hulking dead forms littered the beachfront amid _literal_ smoking craters of ground. There must have been thousands of them. He saw that a few of the creatures had managed to reach the line, and their dead bodies were hanging from the sides and turrets of the massive M1 tanks, unmoving, and ripped apart by Vulcan-cannon fire. His eyes moved along the surface of his own vehicle, wincing as he saw some hundreds of armor piercing round impact holes in the side of the hull, awfully close to the fuel and ammunition racks. Three of the beast's bodies were attached there, their claws sunk deep into the reinforced metal. They had managed to tear almost half-way through, he noted with detached horror. In another minute or two...

"What the jumped-up Jesus _is that_...?" Poole heard Sergeant Warren say quietly from down below him. Poole frowned and jumped down next to him, following his gaze.

"What's what, Sergeant? I don't see..." Poole asked squinting, then trailing off as he spotted what he was looking at.

The waves were broken about a half-a-mile off shore by a glistening, hulking... _thing_. It thrashed and fought against unseen opponents, and plumes of water periodically shot up around it. Poole listened carefully and could hear the deep booms of far-away explosions. The thing was getting pounded by underwater torpedoes as they watched.

It raised a half-arm, half-claw into the air, and with a sense of surreal terror, Poole realized that it was holding half of a damned submarine in it's grip. Flecks falling off of it must have been it's crew-members.

"Holy God in heaven, Sarge..." Poole whispered.

They watched as more and more underwater explosions hit the creature. The sea all around it began to turn black with it's blood until finally, mercifully, with a gurgle of pain that they could hear from the shore, it sank back below the waves.

"Son..." Sergeant Warren whispered. "God's got _nothin_ ' to do with these things..."

* * *

Crowley grunted as he threw another wave of demonic force and hellfire down at the Deep Ones trying to climb up after him to the top level of the Vault.

He and Rowena had made a mad dash upwards once the Old Ones had broken through the front door. It was an instinctual reaction, mainly, and had, unfortunately, landed them in a very bad strategic position.

They were now much, _much_ further from the only way out of there.

The Deep Ones feinted back, then surged forward en masse again when Crowley rested. At the current rate, they would reach them in mere minutes.

Rowena hurled hexes and curses, but they were largely ineffective. The Old Ones shrugged off physical injuries without regard.

And the entire time, the Old God that was leading them waited patiently on the floor of the Vault of Hell, watching them with cold, emotionless eyes.

"We need a new plan, Mother..." Crowley muttered, flinging another Deep One that had gotten a bit too close back with a blast of kinetic force.

"Tell me something that I don't know, Fergus," Rowena snapped back tiredly, her voice full with exasperation.

"There are exactly eight-hundred billion empty cells in this Vault, minus their souls."

"Fascinating, Fergus, and why should I care about that?"

"Because, _if_ we don't come up with that new plan, our various body parts are going to be filling up every single one of those."

"Ah. I see your point now," Rowena replied wearily. "Well, sorry to say, Lamb, I'm fresh out. You?"

"I've been wracking my brain..." Crowley grunted, flinging his hand to the side, a wall of fire appearing in front of him. The Deep Ones that had been advancing in a line shied away from it, hissing and spitting.

"So _that's_ that hollow thumping noise I've been hearing..." Rowena answered with a smirk. A Deep One howled at her in rage and surprise as it's arm suddenly burst open with maggots and spiders.

"Would you like to hear this or not?" Crowley shot back.

"Sorry Fergus. Please continue."

Crowley sighed. "It seems to me that only the power of Creation can truly hurt these things. I was there when Charlie Bradbury turned a rather large one of these into a seagull once."

"Well then, what a pity that _she's_ not around," Rowena grunted, throwing a hex at a Deep One, causing it to stumble blindly into a few of it's companions, and sending them all tumbling in a heap down the stone stairway.

" _Mother_...!"

"Sorry! I'm scared,...and when I get scared...I get extra...er...snarky..."

Crowley frowned. "As if that is even possible."

"I said that I'm sorry...what else do you want? Besides, I'm a witch. You're a Demon. We seem to be running a bit low on the pure power of Creation around here, if you understand what I'm saying." Several Deep Ones broke off in a run and circled Rowena, backing her into a corner, where she cringed away from them.

Two Deep Ones crowded Crowley and seized him by his arms, shoving him hard against a stone wall.

"Well, I've been thinking about the incident on the beach with Cthulhu." he grunted in pain as the creature's claws bit into his arm.

" _Do_ tell...and please be quick about it..." Rowena whimpered as the Deep Ones closed in on her.

"Well, what if it wasn't the Souls of the _Damned_ that Judah filled me up with?"

Rowena frowned. "I thought we've determined that...what else could he have given...eeep!" she shrieked as they seized her and started dragging her forcefully down the landing.

Crowley smiled. "What if they were the Souls from the _other_ side...?"

The Old God down on the floor suddenly whipped it's head up at Crowley, eyes narrowing. It let out a deep, warning hiss. Crowley's smile grew.

"Tell me if this stings..." he growled, letting the power that he felt deep within him straining to get out flow to the surface, a raging storm that frightened him, even as he controlled it, as it threatened to wipe him away in a flash of brilliant light...

The Old God let out a howl of primordial fury and rushed the steps, just as an aurora of brilliant white light began cascading out of Crowley. It cast it's minions bodies aside from it's path of ascent like sticks, ripping up the very stone underneath it's feet in it's furious charge to get to Crowley.

It slowed as the first pulse of light hit it, it's muscles straining. It let out a low, booming growl of rage.

The Deep Ones surrounding Crowley began to burst into dark, cindery flames - almost like thin paper burning. Their frozen forms crumbled slowly to the floor, blown by an unseen gentle breeze.

The second wave of Light pulsed from Crowley, and the remainders of the Deep Ones bodies blew apart in a flurry. The Old God on the stairs stopped moving alltogether, a look of pure hatred in it's eyes.

"Liggggghtttttbrrrrringer...MooorrrnnninnngStaaarrr" it gurgled, it's voice strained.

"So sorry, but he's been supplanted," Crowley said, stepping forward. "By someone much more qualified to run this place..."

The third wave burst from Crowley, screeching with pure energy all over the Vault of Hell. The walls shuddered, large chucks of thick stone breaking off and crashing all around them. The Old God arched backwards, and then exploded into shards of inky darkness, floating away in the air like ashes.

"... _me_..." Crowley exhaled, the glow of Light dimming down. He stumbled and went down to his knees. Rownea rushed over, but he waved her off tiredly in irritation.

"I'm...I'll be allright," he murmured, puffs of residual Light streaming from his lips, then trailing away like smoke from a cigarette.

"Lamb...are you _insane_...? I warned you...that much power...it could have killed you..." She paused, considering. "Not that I'm c _omplaining_ , mind you..."

"Yes, well, it hasn't killed me – thanks for the concern, Mother. At least not yet..." Crowley grunted. He rubbed at his forehead and grimaced. "Gave me a hell of a headache though. Please remind me to thank Judah once I find him and wring his neck for doing this to me..."

"The Souls of Heaven..." Rowena muttered, awed.

Crowley managed to stand up, swaying on his feet a bit before settling himself. He brushed off his suit and exhaled loudly.

"So, what do you say? We go find exactly why he did this to me...? I'm _dying_ to hear this one..."

* * *

Aleister stared at the screen along with Castiel and the rest of the Resistance in the main hanger, watching as the Army and Navy wiped out the remains of the attacking forces in both New York and Los Angeles. The CNN camera feed switched back from coast-to-coast, even patching in from other battles going on worldwide.

And everywhere they looked, they were _winning_...the human race was beating back the Old Ones.

"Impossible..."Aleister muttered, jaw slightly ajar. Jesse looked over at him, frowning.

"Huh? What are you talking about?"

"They're...they're destroying them...wiping them out...even the Old Gods...they are _killing_ them...everywhere..."

"Yeaaaaaah, and that's a _good_ thing," Jesse said, eyebrows raising in question.

Aleister started, then blinked rapidly, breaking our of his reverie. "Yes, yes, of course...I am just... _surprised_ is all..."

"How so?"

Aleister's eyes flicked to Castiel, who stood stoically watching the television. "It...well...it shouldn't have been so _easy_..."

"You call that...' _easy_ '...?" Jesse replied, astonished. "Did we just watch the same show there, mate? Did you _see_ how much ammunition that they sent at those things?"

Aleister grimaced. "You misunderstand me..." he said, eyes flicking back to Castiel. Jesse followed the gaze. "Tell him, Angel. If you please."

"Castiel?" Jesse asked, folding his arms over his chest. "Wanna tell me what he's talking about?"

Castiel turned away from the TV and regarded Jesse, looked back to Aleister, who nodded, and then nodded back in return before speaking.

"Those...creatures..." he started, his gravelly voice sounding very tired. "Physical harm, while possible, should not have been so effective against them."

"And you know this, how?"

"I fought these things once, and have read many reports about them taken from the War of Creation," Castiel replied. "A fully formed army of Old Ones..." he closed his eyes and shook his head. "Aleister's right. This was too easy. Something went wrong..."

Jesse's head rocked back a bit, confused. "I think you mean to say...'Something went right...' Right?"

Castiel's mouth straightened into a tight line. "For the human race, assuredly. For the Old Ones..." His eyes widened and he looked to Aleister. Aleister watched him for a moment, then his eyes widened too in recognition.

"It's the only thing that makes sense," Aleister whispered.

"What...?" Jesse asked.

"They weren't fully manifested," Castiel answered Aleister, seemingly ignoring Jesse. "That's _impossible_..."

"As I _just_ previously stated..." Aleister smiled bitterly. "There should be nothing that prevented the Old Ones from fully manifesting here. We've missed something."

Jesse frowned, looking back and forth between Castiel and Aleister. "We...whad'ya mean by 'we'...?"

"Take him..." Aleister said quietly, looking over Jesse's shoulder.

Jesse felt a sharp blow on the back of his head. He managed to turn around, the room spinning...

The Resistance, all of the Ex_Heralds...watched him impassively...Castiel stood in front of him, the blunt end of Angel's Blade held upright in his hand. And his eyes...pitch back...darker than even a Demon's eyes...

"...whhaaat...?" Jesse managed to mutter before slumping to the floor, unconscious.

Aleister sighed, standing up and surveying the room. "Our power is being leeched away somehow. I want to find out how. There is no time to waste." He sighed. "Ironic, that. Locked away for untold millenia, and now there is no time..." He glanced down at Jesse's senseless form and back up at Castiel. "Lock him away. Make sure that he can't use his power to stop us."

Castiel cocked his head to the side. "Why not just kill him?"

Aleister shook his head. "He is the vessel of so much power. We need to feast upon it - use it, as the Lightbringer used us. He needs to live...for a very, _very_ long time..." He smiled, considering. "Actually, sorry to say, well, for him, anyway...his end may _never_ come."


	10. Will Live As

**Will Live As...**

 _Eight days ago – In an empty hallway of the Resistance_

Aleister looked relieved. "Ah. Ok. All's fine then. Have at it," he said, smiling and squaring his shoulders.

Castiel put his hands on either side of Aleister's face, and then looked deep into his eyes.

Aleister, or more specifically, the Being inhabiting Aleister, instantly felt a jolt of pure connection. It exhilarated in the feeling - it had not been sure if it could have found something to use to overpower the will of the Angel - and this was more, much, _much_ more than enough. This would be preferable than having to destroy him.

It seized on the sympathetic energy in the Angel, wondering briefly how it was that a child of God could become so infested with dark energy. It ignored the question, drinking in that darkness, bonding with it, using it, forging it.

The Angel Castiel never had a chance. The Being was born of this. When Lucifer, oh those many millenia ago, had breached the Void and stolen Dark energies to create his Demons, the Ancient Being had felt _pain_. It had felt that loss for what seemed like, and almost literally _was_ , an eternity. Now that loss dwindled, and was _gone_.

It was whole once again.

With a gasp, Castiel fell away from Aleister, stumbling and falling to one knee in front of him. Aleister smiled.

 _How perfectly appropriate_ , he thought.

"What...what have you _done to me_...?" Castiel gasped, straining, the veins on his neck black against his skin, the Darkness straining in his blood.

"Don't fight," Aleister said gently, then shrugged. "Or do, it doesn't matter." He titled his head, puzzling at the Angel as the question once again came to mind. "Actually, I should be asking _you_ that same question. You, my friend, are in possession of an _extraordinary_ amount of what you would name 'demonic' energy. Where did you get that?" He rubbed his chin, leaning down to look Castiel in the eyes. Castiel strained and fought to stand, but he was failing. "And, more precisely, what were you planning to do with it? With that much energy, you could rule half of the Universe, as Lucifer did."

"No...idea...what you're talking about," Castiel grunted, sinking further to the floor, sweat pouring down his forehead.

"Truly? Hm. Disappointing." Aleister replied. He sighed and placed his hands on his knees, pushing himself up to a standing position, towering over Castiel's struggling form. Castiel slammed a fist into the ground, his hand then clenching and unclenching.

Aleister smiled down at him. "Painful isn't it? Your Father imposed that pain on me when His Universe was born...after He had imprisoned me after the War of Creation. I have born it ever since."

Castiel struggled to raise his eyes to Aleister. "What...who...are you?"

"A name? You wish to name me? Intriguing. Oh, I suppose I should have one, now that I am manifest, shouldn't I?" Aleister frowned mockingly, considering. "Well, scanning the memories of this host body, I believe I've found one. H.P. Lovecraft once named us all, did you know that? It cost him dearly. His sanity...and beyond."

Aleister smiled and leaned down again. Castiel was nearly prone on the floor, his chest heaving and struggling to take in a breath. "Lovecraft named me 'Azathoth'" he whispered. " But Azathoth is a sleeper, really, a dreamer. I am awoken now, so you may call me 'Nyarlathotep', an Agent of the whole that is Azathoth, and also, in a sense, also the whole...very much like that Holy Trinity of yours, but with just the two..." He smiled insanely. "I am God's opposite number, you could say. Where he brings Order, I am Chaos. Where he brings Light, I bring...well, whatever I please, actually." He watched as Castiel slumped to the floor, unconscious.

"Now, when you awake, you shall do my bidding. I have a task for you Castiel, former Angel of the Lord. And I need you to do it immediately."

* * *

 _Seven days ago – Outside of the Vault of Souls in Hell_

Castiel watched as Crowley and Rowena searched inside the Vault. The Souls of Hell weren't there.

Obviously. He _knew_ where those were now. The big question was 'why'? Why had Judah done this to him? Or had it been Lucifer, when he had faced him in combat?

He shook his head. Another time. Now, he heard only the voice in his head. The one that he was compelled to follow.

 _Get rid of Crowley. God has named him as a Champion. I want him eliminated._

Castiel covertly cast his eyes around, his gaze finally settling on a lever, one that would shut the door...

"It isn't the souls from the Vault?" Castiel shouted. He had moved back to stand near the entrance of the Vault, as if standing guard. "Then where are they?" He saw them turn to him, confused...still...frozen in place...

 _Good_.

Rowena blinked in confusion. "I...I...I don't _know_ ..."

"Castiel..." Crowley said quietly in warning..."Castiel, don't stand too close to that mechanism..."

Castiel looked around him, seemingly confused, and with a very off-balanced twist, bumped a lever set into a stone outcrop near the door. Startled, he leaped away from it and out of the Vault.

"Castiel, _no_!" Crowley shouted, sprinting towards the door.

But it was too late. With startling swiftness, the Vault door slammed shut, sealing Crowley and Rowena inside.

 _Perfect_.

"It's done," Castiel murmured, hunching up his shoulders and striding away from the massive door.

 _He is dead, then_? The voice instantly appeared in his head., an unhindered intruder. Castiel shuddered.

"Not dead," Castiel answered, shaking his head, closing his eyes in disgust at himself...why couldn't he resist? Why couldn't he fight...

 _Then what, exactly, have you done with him_?

"I have sealed Crowley and Rowena in the Vault of Souls. There is no way out of there."

There was silence in his head, but Castiel could still feel that foul presence lurking back there...embedded in his very existence...

 _Good. I will send an Agent to finish the job that you couldn't_ , the voice answered, the disappointment clear in it's tone. _Return to me. There is another that I wish to have._

Castiel found himself moving against his will, finding a path back to his point of ingress into Hell, then he flew back.

* * *

 _One day ago – At Resistance Headquarters_

Jesse frowned, looking back and forth between Castiel and Aleister. "We...whad'ya mean by 'we'...?"

"Take him..." Aleister said quietly, looking over Jesse's shoulder.

Jesse felt a sharp blow on the back of his head. He managed to turn around, the room spinning...

The Resistance, all of the Ex-Heralds...watched him impassively...Castiel stood in front of him, the blunt end of Angel's Blade held upright in his hand. And his eyes...pitch back...darker than even a Demon's eyes...

"...whhaaat...?" Jesse managed to mutter before slumping to the floor, unconscious.

Aleister sighed, standing up and surveying the room. "Our power is being leeched away somehow. I want to find out how. There is no time to waste." He sighed. "Ironic, that. Locked away for untold millenia, and now there is no time..." He glanced down at Jesse's senseless form and back up at Castiel. "Lock him away. Make sure that he can't use his power to stop us."

Castiel cocked his head to the side. "Why not just kill him?"

Aleister shook his head. "He is the vessel of so much power. We need to feast upon it - use it, as the Lightbringer used us. He needs to live...for a very, _very_ long time..." He smiled, considering. "Actually, sorry to say, well, for him, anyway...his end may _never_ come."

Castiel watched quietly as the corrupted members of the Resistance dragged Jesse's prone form into the hall containing their specially crafted holding cells. He looked at a couple of members of Rowena's coven and nodded at them.

"Gather up everything that you have, Castiel said. "Jesse carries an immeasurable amount of power, the power to bend reality to his will, if he wants to. We need to cut him off from that."

They nodded and rushed off, Castiel watching them go.

* * *

 _Now_

Cartaphilus was dancing.

The sheer number of souls that he had banished into the eternal Void today was beyond measure. He smiled, practically glowing, for every Soul that he destroyed, he knew that it would cause an _eternal_ agony for God.

He looked back at Death, who was watching him, an obvious look of disapproval on his face.

"Something wrong?" Cartaphilus asked, still beaming. "I thought this was what you did for a living."

Death bristled. "I never took pleasure from it, as you do now."

"I seriously don't think that you ever took pleasure in _anything_ , you old crow," Cartaphilus sneered.

Death smiled thinly, his eyes twinkling in malice at the insult. "Oh, don't be so sure, Roman. A good Chicago Deep-Dish Pizza, for example, is very likely humanity's greatest achievement."

Cartaphilus barked out a laugh of pure contempt. "More the reason to end their pitiful existence." He looked around the battlefield, at the carnage that had just finished here. The soldiers were re-organizing their lines, and the medics were moving amongst the bodies, checking dog tags. Cartaphilus had already finished collecting their souls, but was lingering to see if any more would soon join their comrades-in-arms in the Void. He watched the possibilities form in front of him, as Death had shown him how to do, trying to guide some of those destinies towards death. He frowned, scanning the sea, and squinting at the wet, kelp-lined stone platforms that had risen from the depths before turning back to Death.

"That can't be it."

Death clasped his hands gently in front of him and inclined his head to the side.

"Whatever are you implying by that?"

"What am I implying...? The battle, of course!" Cartaphilus sputtered, sweeping his arm out wildly. " _That_ was the battle for the last bastion of reality? _That_ was the final Armageddon? _The End of all Things_!?"

"Apparently not."

Cartaphilus narrowed his eyes dangerously, striding towards Death and stopping just in front of him, staring up into his cold eyes.

"You. You are _not telling me something_ ," he hissed in warning.

Death didn't react at all.

"Apparently so," he replied dryly, considering the Roman like a interesting piece of debris that had washed up on the shore.

" _Why_ wasn't that the end of all things, Reaper?" Cartaphilus growled. "The Gate is open, the Enemy walks among us. What could possibly stop it?"

"You're a smart one, figure it out for yourself," Death answered nonchalantly, turning away and striding down the tank line, unseen by the mortals around him.

Cartaphilus turned red with fury. He ran after Death, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him around.

"Answer me!" he screamed, spittle flying from his mouth.

Cartaphilus blinked in surprise as he suddenly found himself on his back, unmoving. Death loomed over him, leaning close, a rusty, pock-marked great scythe pressed firmly against the Roman's neck. He gulped in fear.

"Wha...how?" he sputtered.

Death glared. "You seek to set your will against mine as you set it against God? Infused with the power of Darkness or not, Roman, you will find that task more than you can handle."

"But...you _promised_ me...revenge...you said that you too were tired of this endless cycle..."

"Oh, and I am, and yes, I did indeed," Death said, still holding the Roman down. "I never specified the manner of breaking the cycle, however, if you recall."

"You said that you wanted no future, an end to it all," the Roman pressed, gaining confidence. If Death had wanted to end him, he would have done it by now.

Death seemed to recognize that Cartaphilus had figured this out, and moved the scythe aside, standing up slowly. He reached a hand out to help the Roman up.

Hesitantly, Cartaphilus took it and stood.

"I don't understand."

Death nodded, not looking at him.

"I told you that I needed a new partner," Death said. "I did not deceive yo, but the entirety of the truth is that I needed a mortal, honestly, _any_ mortal with two important factors to aid me in my goal. One; they had to be working within the confines of Free Will. That was a point that God would never concede upon. And two; they had to want to end the life of God Himself."

Cartaphilus shook his head in disbelief. "Wait...are you saying to me, that this was God's _idea_?"

Death smiled humorously. "Aren't all things, when you boil it down?" He watched as Cartaphilus absorbed this, then nodded in satisfaction. "He needed a way to stop the cycle as well. Creation to destruction – it has played out too many times. He wished to be done with it."

"Then let it end!" Cartaphilus interrupted. "The means are here. The Old Ones are free and..."

Death held up a hand, stopping him. "That would not _end_ the cycle, Roman. It would merely cause it to _repeat_ itself again."

"What...?"

"If the Old Ones win, and destroy God, then all is lost, plunged into Darkness and the Void. No Creation. No Balance."

"Exactly our goal."

"No," Death corrected him," exactly the opposite of it, in fact. What do you think existed - thinking linearly, that is - before the Light?"

Cartaphilus frowned, "Nothingness."

"Exactly. The Void. But when you are thinking linearly, you are only seeing a infinitesimally small part of the pattern of existence, a beginning and an end. In truth, it was only a part of that endless cycle that we have been talking about – Nothingness to Light, back to Nothingness, back to Light. Now, tell me Roman, how do you propose to stop _that_ , now that you are aware that simple destroying everything around you will inevitably lead to the resurrection of the same pattern?"

Cartaphilus started to speak, then stopped, dumbfounded. "I...I do not know. But, then, it sounds like you don't either. And you still promised me my revenge on God..."

Death looked up into the sky. "Not entirely accurate, Cartaphilus. As I told you, we have a plan, God and I."

"To destroy Him? Are you telling me that you and God have planned His own death?"

Death nodded. "That's exactly what I'm telling you. Our plan has been working itself out for the entirety of this manifestation of Creation – from the first Light to the fall of Lucifer, to you stabbing the Son with your Spear, to the Winchesters, to Castiel and Crowley, he and I have engineered _all of this_. He wants to stop the cycle, just as I do, and, to an extent, you do as well. The biggest question was; how does we do this and still preserve Creation?"

Cartaphilus sighed. "From what you just told me, it's impossible. If everything is consumed by Darkness, it will just be reborn from it."

"So, logically, we needed to find a way to remove God, without removing the entire Universe with it," Death said quietly.

Cartaphilus blinked. "And...you are telling me that you've found a way to do this?"

Death looked down at him.

"I'm telling you that we are doing this right now. And, since you were deranged enough to _volunteer_ to be the instrument of God's destruction, you are in this...'up to your neck', as they are wont to say around here."

Cartaphilus' frown deepened. "How...what can I do?"

Death smiled. "You are doing it already, you foolish man."

* * *

Judah frowned. Castiel. He could no longer sense Castiel.

That was a problem. The only explanation for this is that he had been taken by the enemy, intact, no less, because if he had been killed, the Souls of Hell would have been released in a torrent. There would be no mistaking that.

This was a _problem_.

"Wanna talk about it?" came a voice from the leeway side of the hill. Judah frowned and looked over the rise. His shoulders drooped.

"Wonderful. What do you two want?"

Chuck and Charlie looked up at him from where they sat on the hillside. Ridiculously, a picnic blanket was spread out on the ground underneath them and a basket sat there on it opened up, filled with various lunchtime sundries.

Charlie patted an empty spot on the blanket and smiled at him. "Oh, don't be such a grumpy teenager. Cop a squat."

Judah crossed his arms. "I don't have time for this. The enemy has captured Castiel. I'm sure I don't have to explain to _you two_ the trouble that that will cause, especially considering the artifact that he now carries?"

Chuck narrowed his eyes. "What? Did you seriously think that this would be easy?"

Judah didn't answer.

"I mean, you sensed that there was a manifestation of Darkness here on Earth back in Waco, right? Did you think that something that powerful and malevolent was just going to play along?" Chuck shook his head. "It's going to get it's licks in, you might as well accept that and roll with the punches."

Judah shook his head in disbelief. "Father... _truly_...'get it's licks in'? This is _catastrophic_! And this 'manifestation' that you are so casually shrugging off is most likely Nyarlathotep, as you should also be more than aware of as well. He could very easily destroy everything that we've planned..."

Charlie threw up her hands in exasperation. "Yeah, smart-ass, 'cause that's what those frikkin' things _do_!" She let out a tired breath and patted the spot on the blanket again, harder this time, her eyes going wide. "Now. Sit. Down."

Judah hesitated, then, grudgingly, sat down. Charlie beamed at him and reached into the basket. "Sandwich?"

Judah eyed it and then looked up at her. "You do realize that this is basically me having a conversation with myself, don't you?"

"Way I see it, you...we, are long overdue to have one of those," Chuck replied dryly. "So, whatd'ya say, wanna talk about it?"

Judah considered him for awhile, then slowly reached out for the sandwich that Charlie was holding.

"Cool," she said cheerily, taking a big bite of her own sandwich and chewing happily. "So, where do you want to start?"


End file.
